


the game stays the same

by solitariusvirtus, tenten_d



Series: flight of the dragon [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: ASoIaF, AU, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Drabble Collection, F/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-11
Updated: 2014-02-22
Packaged: 2018-01-01 04:48:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 50
Words: 52,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1040509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solitariusvirtus/pseuds/solitariusvirtus, https://archiveofourown.org/users/tenten_d/pseuds/tenten_d
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>House Targaryen seeks an alliance with House Stark. Is there wisdom is such an act or not? Whatever the case may be, the dragon and the wolf must come together at the word of a King, be he mad or otherwise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. i

Rickard's eyes are cold and hard as the letter in his hands reveals its content. It is word from King Aerys, as much staggering, as it is unexpected. In truth it is a proposal, one Rickard can hardly refuse. For a brief moment he looks upon his daughter, Lyanna. The girl is pulling at Eddard, all her four years' strength for naught. The boy is unmovable.

The dragons ask for an alliance with the north. The dragons ask after his only daughter. Rickard tries to see her with his mind's eye, years from now, a queen.

Lyanna glances towards her father, as if knowing his thoughts are upon her. She goes back to pestering her brother after a smile blooms on her face. Sweet Lyanna is persistent.

It would be madness to refuse. His daughter is young still. Were the match to fall through, hope would not lost for her. Rickard pulls his lady wife aside and whispers in her ear as the children play. Their Lyanna, he says, will have the chance of bringing peace and balance. It is no little thing, not for her, and not for House Stark. Lyanna of the North is called by the dragons.


	2. ii

Pouting as only a child could, Lyanna drops in front of the door which leads into her father's study. Her gray eyes fill with tears. "Don't send Ned away!" she howls as loud as her lungs allow her. Her hands reach towards the wood and slap against the flat surface again and again. "Don't send Ned away!" That's what she repeats for the next hour or so.

In the end she tires and her head falls forward, knocking on the wood. Tears still fall from her eyes solely for what she perceives to be a grave injustice. Ned is the brother she loves best.

Rickard opens the door to a pair of red rimmed orbs. He picks the girl up, brushing back rebel strands of hair. Her whimpers are muffled into his shoulder. "Cry no more."

Lyanna doesn't get her wish, of course, and Eddard still leaves. Her mother will later explain that dear Ned must make them proud. Lyanna hears not a single word of it, too busy holding onto the cloak around her brother's shoulders. They have to pry her away, and Eddard barely manages to convince the young girl to remain in the embrace of their mother.


	3. iii

Robert Baratheon is nothing like Ned. Lyanna sinks her teeth into the skin of the boy their father has decided to foster. Why they'd receive such a disgusting creature into their house, Lyanna doesn't know. He is a cruel, loud thing and she dislikes him more than she does the spiders that occasionally steal into her room. She gains a shove in the snow for her efforts.

Benjen is still a baby, so he can't help her much as Robert heaps armfuls of snow on her. The chill bites well into her bones, water soaking her dress.

There is no knight in shining armour for her. Lyanna despairs at having to suffer through Robert's torment. Instead of crying into her mother's skirts, she learns to protect herself.

Soon enough the snow feels like an old friend. The trees are her friends as well, and she becomes her own saviour. The habit of avoiding Robert slowly turns into an art all of its own. The stag does not yet fear the wolf. And with its teeth missing the pup can but keep out of the antlers' way. But one day, Lyanna promises to herself, the wolf will be grown, so will the fangs it'll wield.


	4. iv

For her fifth nameday Lyanna receives gifts from House Targaryen. Her confusion elicits from mother a rather brief explanation. "One day, my little Lyanna, you shall be Queen." That is well and good, the girl considers, as she fingers the silvery silk of a dress, but she would have loved it more had they sent her something that she could use. Mother will surely never allow her to wear such dresses and hairpins when she known Lyanna will climb trees and spend long hours into the godswood. Is it because of Ned that she huddles under the weirwood, because she misses him something fierce. And always the fiery leaves and bone-white bark soothe her.

On the bright side, she manages to slip into the sleeve of her dress one thin package. Once she escapes from all the attention, naturally fleeing into the godswood, Lyanna unwraps her gift. A tiny knife with a golden hilt and a ruby on its scabbard rests in her hand. The edge is not sharp, so it can't be considered a weapon. Instead it has a chain. Lyanna slips it around her neck and looks down to see the knife has almost reached her middle.

Mother scolds her when she returns with a tear in the skirts of her dress, and twigs and leaves in her hair. She doesn't inquire about her daughter's new necklace, only tucks it under the girl's collar. "You would not want to lose it," she murmurs, a half-smile on her face.

Lyanna comes to the table is a shimmering dress of gray, the colour of House Stark. Rickard doesn't comment on his daughter's gown but his eyes shine. The girl's mother fusses over the necklace that has somehow come to rest in plain sight. Lyanna evades any attempt to have it hidden. For whatever reason, the child is extremely fond of this particular gift. She wears it with pride, because she can see what it is while others don't. Robert comments on her pendant with well-hidden bite, and for a short moment Lyanna thinks with glee of how she'd surprise him should she reveal her jewel ornament to be a knife.

Alas, she curbs the impulse. Lyanna has learned that some fights should not be picked. And suddenly her mother's words come back to her. "One day, my little Lyanna, you shall be Queen." She wonders if that will give her power over the likes of people such as Robert. Would she that her eyes never land on him after he leaves Winterfell. Lyanna chooses to place her attention on baby Benjen with his rounded cheeks and blue eyes more vivid than her own. Benjen is the closes thing she has to Ned, even if he cannot yet run with her through the godswood. Baby Benjen will grow, Lyanna reminds herself, as she sighs over not having her older brother with her.

Rickard shares a look with his wife. It is a silent exchange between them that cannot be caught by the untrained eyes of children.


	5. v

The chill in her bones is an enemy she cannot quite repel. Lyanna has grown in the North, surrounded by snow from birth. Lyanna loves the snow. And Lyanna falls prey to the snow in the end. Oh, she's a Stark, a wolf, but it helps her not at all against the cold and damp as she lies freezing in the snow. She supposes it is her own folly that has brought her here, and would she have known, the girl would not have ventured so far from Nan's watchful eyes. In truth, she hadn't meant any harm. It was all supposed to be a game, which seems silly now, because it's gotten her in quite a lot of trouble.

From the corner of her eye she can discern the crimson trail of blood. It looks like a lot of it, she thinks somewhat hazily. In fact she feels quite lightheaded. The roar of pain in her skull has quieted some, leaving behind confusion. Not about her situation. Lyanna is not confused about that. It's a stupid, stupid thing she's done and only now does she regret it. If Ned were here he would have surely talked her out of it, or he'd have at least joined her. But he's not and Brandon who has come to visit for a little while has no time for his little sister. And, to be honest, Lyanna doesn't know him well enough anyway. Brandon has left home to be fostered elsewhere when she was just a few weeks old. Lyanna calls him brother because father calls him son. But he isn't Ned and she can conjure nothing for him other than a vague admiration.

Nan would have to be looking for her now. She's been gone long enough, the girl reckons. Maybe they'll find her body here in the snow. That's if she's lucky and another storm doesn't come. Lyanna begs the gods to at least let her see her parents again. There is no chance of seeing Ned, he's gone, as Brandon had been, and he won't be back too soon. Benjen wouldn't understand what's happening anyway. And Brandon, he's just an afterthought. Lyanna whimpers. Her lips must be blue by now, she's sure. Long ago Nan had warned her of the cold's bite. Lyanna had laughed along with Ned then, proclaiming as their father had, that they'd been born for it.

"I found her!" is the sudden yell that assaults her ears. Lyanna's attention is drawn to a spot of darkness that has blocked her view. She thinks it might be a face, but her sight is not clear enough for her to know who she's looking at. "Gods! What happened to you?" he asks. Or at least Lyanna thinks it is a he. The voice is rather deep; she can't imagine such a voice on a woman.

"Lyanna!" another voice joins in. This one she can better place. It's her lady mother. "My poor baby," she weeps from somewhere close to her. Lyanna can tell she's still being held by the unknown man. "Give her to me."

Once she's in her mother's arms, Lyanna closes her eyes. For a moment she thinks it is all some nightmare come to torment her. It isn't, of course. The whole incident is quite real, the pain proves so. Again, the girl thinks that she shouldn't have allowed herself to be goaded into this. She should have just gone to her father and told him about it. But she hadn't. Lyanna wanted to solve it all on her own, to prove to herself that she was self-sufficient.

Something warm trickles down her throat and Lyanna struggles to swallow it. Faintly she can hear Maester Luwin telling her to keep swallowing. The pain flares for a second before she falls into a deep sleep, lost to the world.

Next she wakes Lyanna is back in her room. Furs cover her up to the chin and her body protests as she moves. Nan sleep at the foot of the bed seated in a chair, and the girl falls back. It doesn't look at all comfortable. Also, she's parched. It would be cruel to wake her. Lyanna knows it, yet she still opens her mouth to speak. She really is thirsty.

"Water," she croaks. But it's only a whisper in the room and she fears the woman will not hear her. "Water, please."

She needn't have feared. Nan is awake upon the first word and scrambles to her feet. The jug of water is on a stool, along with a cup. Lyanna would have wanted to sit up but Nan shakes her head in disapproval. "Stay as you are, child."

Lady Stark enters the chamber rather like a storm. When she sees her daughter has woken, the woman leaps towards her. "My Lyanna!" she cries. The woman has her in her arms.

Much later, after all the hugs and tears are no longer, Lyanna will tell her parents what happened. The necklace she has received as a gift plays an important part. Robert had managed to take it off of her. No doubt it was meant as a jest. Lyanna had demanded that she be given the trinket back. Robert had refused and hung it into a three, telling her that should she so desire, she may climb the tree for it, and left. While all were sure the boy had meant nothing by it, Lyanna has still slipped and fallen.

Oh, she'd gotten her necklace back, sure enough. But as she was climbing down, a branch had given way. Initially she had landed on her feet, the impact however had been so strong and the ground sleek that her ankle had twisted and she had fallen. Unfortunately the back of her head had landed on a sharp stone. And she was left to bleed there.

Mother is appalled. Father is furious. And Robert is been properly horrified. Brandon glares at the boy without a bit of sympathy, and Lyanna feels a little more warmth for her eldest brother. Benjen is unaware as always and just wants to crawl into his sister's bed and spend the night in warmth as is his habit.

"A real pity," mother murmurs as she touches her daughter's now shorn hair. She may have seen something she didn't like in her daughter's eyes for she doesn't stay silent long after. "But I would rather have you short haired than not at all."


	6. vi

Silent as a shadow and given much to do, Lyanna Stark learns to avoid trouble most of the time by the age of six. Her mother falls ill, so very ill that Maester Luwin says she is not to rise out of bed, unless it is absolutely necessary. Lady Stark chafes at that but is not really strong enough to protest. So Lyanna, who is a child still, stays at her bedside. She learns from her mother that being a lady goes well beyond wearing dresses and attending feasts and being gracious. She learns that being a lady is not so bad, after all.

"We are not men, my sweetling," Lady Stark tells her. She looks pale and drawn and just about ready to breathe her last breath. "Let that not change your values. I know you like it best when you are not pressured into being a lady, but hear what I have to say still."

Lyanna leans in. "I am listening, mother," she assures in her most solemn voice. Her small hands are fisted into the furs on the bed.

"You and Brandon have much of your father's temper, sweetling. Ned is more like me. But maybe for you it is just age. And you were much calmer with Eddard." She smiles at Lyanna's frown. "I am not criticising. It is simply a fact. Lyanna, you father will depend much upon your help. 'Tis to come soon, my love, and I would rather know you prepared."

Confused, the girl touches her hand to her mother's. "What is to come soon? What do you speak of?" There is something akin to fear twisting in her stomach.

Lady Stark offers a small, sad smile. "Benjen is four now. He is little yet, and I need to know you'll look after him." She's asking so much of a girl who is small herself.

"What does that have to do with being a lady?" Lyanna feels cheated. She somehow thinks her questions are not at all answered. The look in her mother's eyes makes her freeze. "I promise I'll take care of Benjen."

She won't be quite a mother to the boy and never quite a lady is the eyes of men, but Lyanna falls into her place much like a fitting puzzle piece. She grows slowly from a younger sibling to an older sister, as mother fades. It's not an easy thing to watch and it hurts more because Benjen doesn't understand and father, no matter how fond he is of mother, has to protect the North.

"It's not about what I want," Rickard tells his daughter as she nears her seventh nameday. "It is about what must be done. Your mother knows well that I would be near her all the time if I could. But she would not have me at the cost of my other duties." And whenever he can he is with her, truth be told. "I have my oaths and you yours, daughter. I expect that you honour them." Rickard puts a hand on her shoulder, but says no more.

Honour is an important thing, Lyanna learns. Her father has said it countless times, mother too, and she even remembers such talk from Brandon who is as hot-headed as she. So she promises to herself that she'll live with honour. She'll keep her word.

Ned comes for the funeral when mother dies. He is all those years older than Lyanna and looks it. Brandon is big and broad-shouldered and looks very much like father. Ned is something else. He is not so tall, almost one and ten himself, but still a lot taller than she remembers. It is good that his face holds to its solemnity else she wouldn't have known it was him when he arrived.

Pitching forward, Lyanna dives into his arms with a cry. Mother is well and truly gone, and Lyanna holds onto the brother she has just gotten back. Ned, of course, is rather awkward. He holds her for a few moments but his hands fidget as if he doesn't really know what to do. And he doesn't, not truly. Lyanna reminds herself that he's lost his mother too. Poor wolves of Winterfell.

"We'll be fine," she tells him then. Maybe not to convince him so much as to convince herself. She needs to hear those words and there is no one else to dispense them at the moment.

"We will," Ned agrees in a rather grim manner. He makes it sound like it's a choice. Perhaps it could be just that.

Brandon approaches with their father. Suddenly Lyanna is quite miffed at being so short. All men tower over her. It feels like a foolish thing to think. And yet she feels safe surrounded by these mountains. Mother may have been gone but the rest of her family is still here. She sees Benjen struggling to get out of Old Nan's hold and remembers that he is still small as mouse. He won't be towering over her anytime soon in any event.

Almost seven of age, Lyanna finds the value of family. It is sad that death is needed to strengthen this lesson. Still this is it. Lyanna will hold to the lessons her mother has taught her and she'll try to be a lady. She thinks she'll be able to deal with Benjen, mostly. He's not that bad when in an amiable mood, but he is sure to miss mother some so Lyanna can't really expect him to be friendly. Yet for all that she'll care for the boy.

It shall never be the same, she realises when her seventh nameday is past and mother has not kissed her cheeks, nor the next one, nor the one after that. The same recurring thought comes to her when her tenth nameday arrives. This time however she has Ned back and it is a lot better. After all, mother was right to say there was much of her in Ned's character. He balances her well and teaches her a lot. Father may take pride in Brandon's skill as a fighter and his joy of life, but she can also see the same when he looks to her dearest Ned. She can see it when father looks at her and she can see it when he looks at Benjen. Rickard is proud of all four of his children. Mother would have taken pride in it too, Lyanna thinks with just a small twinge of pain in her chest.

Joining her brother Ned in the godswood, Lyanna feels at peace. He gives her a long look but doesn't comment, and later helps her saddle the horses and they go riding.


	7. vii

At one and ten Lyanna meets Catelyn Tully, who is three years older than her. Catelyn is supposed to one day marry Brandon, so father has arranged for the families to meet. Or rather Lord Hoster Tully has. Either way Lyanna is pleased. Catelyn is kind and loving and has gone through the same trials as Lyanna. They are fast friends, she and Cat. But more, Tully's oldest daughter is a woman capable of love. Lyanna sees it every time the other girl brushes her little brother's hair or helps her younger sister dress.

Less pleasant are Lysa Tully and Petyr Baelish. Lyanna shouldn't think so but she does. Oh, they are harmless enough. There are however moments when Lysa looks like she might spill blood over the tiniest of offences and other times when Petyr looks ready to take the head of however holds Catelyn's attention. The northern girl is inclined to ignore it. All they have is Cat, of course they fear losing her attention. Benjen has rare moments when he holds tightly enough to the skirts of her dress that Lyanna can feel the material pull and strain. This is no different. They are children who mean no harm.

Brandon likes Catelyn well enough as far as Lyanna can tell, and the redhead returns her brother's smiles and blushes at the appreciative looks he throws her way. But try as she might, Lyanna can't ignore those moments when her brother's eyes stray. Brandon does have a short attention span, she reasons. There is nothing wrong in looking, she tells herself. And then Lyanna reminds herself that Brandon is an honourable man who would not hurt his betrothed. When one of Catelyn's ladies-in-waiting leaves Riverrun, Lyanna closes her eyes to it and the rather pale face of the girl. Because, she insists in her mind, Brandon meant nothing by it.

Yet she knows that if a man were to humiliate her so, in her own home, she would have likely slit his throat. Lyanna winces at that. Brandon is a good man, and he's young. He may yet change his ways. Catelyn needs never know of her suspicions. Mayhap it is all a strange coincidence.

Lyanna continues to think just that, she tries to cling to her hope. And inevitably her world comes to a sudden halt when she accidentally walks in on her brother and what looks to be a heated affair. She goes as red as Catelyn's hair at the sight and runs out.

"I though you loved her!" she hisses at Brandon when he rushes out after her. "I thought you loved her." This time there is disbelief in her words rather than anger.

"I do," he says, and maybe he believes it to be the truth because his eyes do not lie. "I do love Catelyn Tully. Don't mistake me, for I do. It was a moment of weakness."

"And that makes your actions perfectly acceptable." All of a sudden Lyanna wants Ned to be here; he would know what to say. But Ned is back in Winterfell. "Gods, Brandon!"

"Don't tell father," he begs. He really shouldn't, for father wouldn't care much. After all, they sent that lady-in-waiting away. What stops them from sending this other one away too? "Lya."

Cold gray eyes cut through her brother. "I shan't let a word slip." She considers him for a moment longer. "But I want something in return."

"Anything," Brandon hurries to promise, and Lyanna again wishes she had Ned here. "You can ask anything of me, dear Lya."

"Answer me this one question. Did you put a babe into the other one?" But no, his face is answer enough. Lyanna turns away from him. She doesn't quite know what to say. "I see." Her lips tremble with effort, because yes, she does see. Brandon holds Catelyn in affection but not enough to not want others too. "I will thank you not to speak of this ever again," she finally ends.

On the morrow when she breaks her fast with Catelyn, she can barely keep the shame at bay. It's not hers, of course it is not, but Lyanna does feel responsible. She is sending a good woman into what could become an ordeal. Lyanna avoids the blue eyes of her friend and pretends to be taken with a tapestry hanging on the wall. She is torn. Brandon is her brother despite his questionable conduct and she can only protect him in the end. Again, Lyanna convinces herself that Brandon will likely come to appreciate Catelyn and truly love her and he will not give her cause to lower her head.

Hoster Tully finds Lyanna in his gardens later. "What think you of my Cat, Lady Lyanna?" he asks her, all jovial. Lyanna has to wonder if he too knows of Brandon's behaviour. A pang of guilt, heavy in her stomach, makes her more alert.

"You should be asking my brother, Lord Tully, I shan't be the one marrying her," she replies with a smile. "Mind you, were I a man, Brandon would have to fight me for her." Old Hoster actually laughs at that and Lyanna laughs as well. For what else is there to do? Apparently that is the very best compliment a father can receive where his daughter is concerned.

"Gods, child, you do know how to make a man laugh." Lord Tully leaves her to the flowers and the sun after that parting remark. She enjoys the beauty of Riverrun as the man walks away.

Lyanna would rather make men laugh than cry, she realises. Catelyn would have to judge Brandon on her own, Lyanna also comes to see. "Gods be good!" she beseeches to the open sky. And hopefully Brandon is not a fool and he'll not destroy a chance at happiness. But at the same time she decides that should any man presume to make a fool out of Lyanna Stark they would find themselves at her mercy. She'd never let herself be blinded by a smile and a kiss on the back of her palm.

However much she sees, the Stark girl is yet more child than woman. So like any other child she hopes for the very best, thinking that it might break her heart if her hopes do not come to pass. Lyanna trusts the gods to put all in order and see to the well-fare of her family and friends. But what does she know of the gods or their plans or whether they really care for the pathetic creations they let walk the earth? Can she trust that she's not praying to empty air and ears that do not hear?


	8. viii

Ned has a moment of hesitation, the wooden sword in his hands held high. Lyanna, on the other hand, has no such qualms; she strikes. "If you do not want to do it you don't have to," she says. Still her eyes are trained on him.

Brandon watches the exchange. He smirks at their brother. "Come, Ned, she already rides like a northern man. We do no wrong in teaching her to defend herself." And Ned agrees to it with a nod. Brandon, of course, does not mean to make a knight out of their sister. But for all that he won't leave her safety in the hands of fate or dragons. So between himself and Eddard they teach her how to use her diminutive height to her advantage. It's not much, but she'll be able to save herself should she need it. After all, she won't be long in their care.

There is still a chill to be found when Lyanna's eyes land on her oldest brother, but Brandon forever elects to ignore it. The young woman, two and ten already, imagines that old disappointments are best left buried deep in her mind. Instead she concentrates on what they teach her. It is easy once she knows how to attack and parry, and at times she even manages to land rather nasty hits on Ned or Brandon.

Rickard catches them at times in the yard. He sends the boys hard looks but makes no move to stop them. Never does he let a word of disapproval leave his lips when they come to the hall after a practice session in the yard. He pulls his daughter aside and presses a cold piece of metal into her hand. She looks down to see a dagger. "Keep it, my girl," Rickard encourages. He pats her shoulder gently, because it was his wife who hugged their children, he can only do so much to show his affection. Lyanna is happy still with her gift clutched to her chest. In that moment Rickard swears she looks like her mother more than ever.

If Lyanna has the face of a Stark, the rest of her is all her mother. She carries herself straight and proud, moving with a swish of skirts and a gentle smile. Lyanna Stark will grow up like her mother too, is the thought which comes to Rickard as he watches her scold her youngest brother for whatever scrape he's gotten into. And then it is time to think again on a letter he has received many years ago. The dragons ask for his daughter and soon the world shall know it.

By the time she is four and ten, Lyanna is much a woman and nobody can dispute that. For that reason Rickard is determined to explain to her what has passed many years ago between the wolves and the dragons. "Your mother would have been proud," he tells her. It is no easy task that's been set upon her shoulders. And yet Rickard is sure he will not be faced with regret. His daughter had never made him anything but proud and he would have it so all the time.

For her part, Lyanna is happy enough with the arrangement. She is not a woman who longs for power, political or of any other kind. And she is not a woman who has given her affections to anyone. Instead she has grown up with siblings she cares for and she would like her own family to remain as it is. It costs her nothing to think with joy of her betrothal and marriage. It cannot be a bad thing, for she'll be given even larger a family. Thinking of it so, Lyanna does very much want to embrace this decision of her father's, much more for herself than for him.

"When shall I meet him, father?" Rhaegar Targaryen makes her curious. Her parents had talked little of the Prince when she was small, and then when she was older her mother was no longer. It is all good and well to hear by word of mouth of his intelligence and good looks, but Lyanna would like it better were she to meet him herself.

"Soon enough, daughter," Rickard assures her with a short, sharp laugh. And his word proves true for Harrenhal awaits, a bright new adventure in the eyes of Lyanna and her brothers. Why, even Ned looks like he might enjoy this, and the gods know he is not so given to making merry.

So it is that at four and ten, Lyanna meets Rhaegar Targaryen for the first time ever. The rumours, Lyanna finds, were not wrong; he is rather handsome. The Prince stands with the King and Queen as she is presented to him. He is a Targaryen through and through, with silver hair and violet eyes so common to his house. He is tall like Brandon, but unlike her brother this man is leaner. His face does not smile, and Lyanna is reminded of Ned when his eyes land on her, that gaze solemn and searching. What could he be looking for so intently? She does not know and cannot think upon. Her mind whispers of relief. For the life of her she can't understand why she feels that. She hopes this first impression will not be dashes into pieces. The moment is gone as their eyes break apart.

King Aerys is looking at her speculatively, as if trying to assess her worth. Lyanna can't help but feel uncomfortable under his gaze. He looks a bit like his son and then not at all when she dares to gaze at him. They say the King is mad, and Lyanna thinks that perhaps she understands them. His fingernails are long and bent, hair grown and beard uncut. His eyes however speak the most. They are wild, burning with cold fire. Lyanna falls into a curtsy again, hoping he will not address her. So far, he hasn't shown any interest in speaking to her. This man needs not open his mouth for her to know him dangerous. It is enough to have his attention upon her. She moves away.

The Queen however will not let her escape so easily. In the hall, at the opening feast the woman moves in the torchlight, graceful and tall. Lyanna can only rise to meet her. She's not brought her other children with her here, the northern girl observes. But such a place is not for children like Viserys and little Daenerys. Getting a better look at her, Lyanna think that Rhaegar has his beauty from her. Fool that she's been, it is most like the Queen that the Prince looks.


	9. ix

Rhaegar's attention is all on Lyanna Stark. It's been years since his father has sent north a letter to House Stark asking for the girl. She'd been a child back then, of course, so nothing had been made official. Now, however, she is almost a woman. Lyanna dances with one of her brothers. Rhaegar thinks it may be the eldest but he can't say for sure as he's been much too busy observing the girl. She laughs as he twirls her, her cheeks flushed, her eyes bright. He'll ask her for a dance, he decides as there is a lull between songs.

Approaching her would be far easier if her brother didn't glare quite so. Still Rhaegar makes his way to the little lady. Upon further inspection it seems the irritation is aimed at Lyanna herself rather than at anyone else. He almost laughs when the maiden fair answers with a glare of her own. He is close enough to see her lips move, but he can't hear what she's saying. Whatever it is, her brother gives her a look of pure exasperation before stomping off.

"It seems your knight has left you stranded, my lady." Her back is turned to him as those words leave his mouth. Rhaegar catches just a glimpse of gold trough the curtain of brown hair. The girl jumps to attention, her whole frame spinning to face him. There is a scowl of her face and she's starting to say something until her eyes land on him. A moment of shock registers on her face.

"Wolves shouldn't be taken by surprise, Your Grace. They tend to respond most unpleasantly," Lyanna snaps, but there is genuine pleasure in her eyes which does not go undetected by Rhaegar. She dips in a curtsy.

He laughs, not unkindly. "I am a dragon," Rhaegar reminds the girl. He can see her lips curling in a smile. "May I have a dance, my lady?"

"A dance?" She seems to be considering what Rhaegar knows to be an easy matter to settle. Which is how he knows she is testing his patience. No matter, the Prince is a patient man. He has waited a decade to meet her, after all. "I don't see why not."

So they dance. This close he can take note of the way her she moves, fluid like a river. Her hand rests in his, the grip firm despite the smallness of it. Rhaegar supposes he could easily cover her waist with his hands and lift her off the ground as easy as he would one of his younger siblings. She's a lovely girl, he can't help thinking as their gazes meet and hold. Would that his father announced the betrothal right at this moment. Alas such an occasion merits a feast all of its own. He'll take what he can get then.

"What has your brother done to earn your ire?" he asks, fingers touching her skin lightly. There is a flash of panic in her gray orbs that makes him wonder.

"My brothers are not here," she answers hesitantly. "Benjen is off with his friends, Ned has disappeared at some point and Brandon," Lyanna trails off with a displeased mien. "Gods only know what he's doing," she mutters. "Robert Baratheon 'twas that I danced with."

"You know him well?" Rhaegar has heard about the heir of house Baratheon. He is a skilled warrior some say, while others tell less savoury tales.

"After a fashion." She bites her lip. "Robert was fostered at Winterfell. He and I weren't the best of friends, and it seems time has not changed that by much." Then she laughs leaning closer in his direction, without actually touching him. "He is the same age as my brother, Eddard, and they get on well enough, so I have to make the best of it."

"I see." Because he does see. It's not a complicated thing to understand, yet his brain is rattled by it. "And he invited you to dance still."

"Robert Baratheon danced with probably every woman here that did not refuse him." She looks at him with serious eyes in spite of the fact that she smiles still. "I owe it to my brother to be courteous."

The rest needs not be said. Rhaegar tries to tame the satisfaction. "I would ask for your favour on the morrow, my lady." He would ask that because asking for anything else has to wait.

Tilting her head to the side, Lyanna takes a deep breath. "And you shall have it, if you so wish." Her eyes dart to a table. "My father must be wanting me back now."

Without a word of protest Rhaegar lets her go. She is sweet, this Lyanna Stark his parents have chosen for him. A caring woman too, he realises when watching her interact with the patriarch of House Stark. He can see Robert Baratheon a few seats away from her, drinking from a cup. The man seems half-unconscious and Rhaegar forces his mind away from contemplating with contentment the state of him in the morning. The Prince returns to the King's side.

Aerys completely ignores his son. The King is busy with his mumbling, the son learns. Rhaegar looks to his mother with worry but she stubbornly refuses to meet his eyes. Whatever she is hiding, she fights very hard not to share with him. Rhaegar sighs softly, lilac eyes turning back to the place where Lyanna Stark rests alongside her father. She is speaking to the man, and Rickard Stark nods and glances to her with a sort of warm pride.

Were she his wife, Lyanna would sit next to him. Looking to the empty space at his side Rhaegar wishes for tomorrow to come faster. He wants to have a ribbon of hers tied to his arm. She did promise him a favour, and he would win for her a thousand tournaments. Wine slides down his throat and the Prince knows himself to be half in love with his betrothed even now. From across the hall, Lyanna gives him a long look. She smiles and then turns her head away. Rhaegar longs for more.

"Don't watch her so intently, boy," Aerys growls from beside him making Rhaegar startle. "You will ruin the surprise we have tries so hard to keep secret." The Mad King continues to murmur under his breath and the Queen bestows a kind look on her son. She seems to understand it better than her husband that their son is taken with the she-wolf.

Not one to rebel against his father, Rhaegar nods though and turns to the food and the drink. He thinks he may play the harp for her at some point. Women do so like music. His thoughts take him away for the moment and little matters until the new day comes.


	10. x

The dawn brings a new day, not chilly and not warm. Rhaegar is an early riser, and as always, he takes to walking in the gardens. There is little to do in the absence of his friend, Arthur Dayne. Besides, Rhaegar wants a few moments of peace before the jousting begins. He wants time to think of Lyanna and her smile, to recall the feel of her hand in his. The Prince's lips curl at the memory. Today she'll bestow her favour upon him. Rhaegar wonders what she'll give to him. Anything really will do as far as he's concerned.

"I'd have though you abed still, Your Grace," a voice he's heard in his dreams speaks. Rhaegar knows it to belong to Lyanna Stark. He doesn't startle, but merely turns to look at her. "You wish for my favour even now?"

Always, he is tempted to say that there is no moment in which he doesn't. "I do," Rhaegar replies instead. She steps closer, clutching something to her chest. The material shimmers softly in her hands,light gray, drifting through her fingers like water.

"This is what I'll give you." Although she says that, Lyanna makes no move to part with the scrap of material. The Prince tentatively reaches out. The girl gives a look over her shoulder, and then she turns her head back around to smile at him. Lyanna ties the cloth to his arm.

"What worries you?" He questions when she looks again away from him. Suspicion shines in her eyes at the question and he can see her considering whether to answer or not. "My lady, I would know you at ease."

She murmurs something too softly for him to catch. Gray snaps to violet in a swift move. "I am glad it is you who asked for my favour." There is something she doesn't tell him and the dragon Prince will not push her for it. Lyanna's hands no longer hold onto his arm. "You'll win." Her certainty makes him grin like a boy. Only he is no boy, he's already a man.

"I'll do my very best." It's a promise of sorts, so he can't see why she puts a hand to her mouth in order to cover her mirth. "My lady?"

"Have I ever told you that you and my brother are much alike?" At those words Rhaegar thinks of Brandon. He can't see how they are alike and his confusion must have shown for she hurried to clarify. "I am speaking of Eddard, Your Grace." He still doesn't know what to make of it, so Lyanna touches his arm softly. "You'll know when you meet him."

And with that she gives a bow and leaves him, standing in the gardens, to ponder the meaning of her statement. Eddard Stark is younger than him. Not by much. Yet they've not had a chance to know one another any better than he does Brandon, or the youngest one. He shakes his head and looks to the token she's tied around his arm. It's a sort of scarf, he reckons, and for some reason it looks familiar. Unable to place it, Rhaegar lifts his head at the sound of steps.

Arthur Dayne, in his white cloak, is approaching the Prince. He gives a stare to the material around his arm and grins in a manner that Rhaegar is sure to ignore the impertinence of. "I saw you dancing with the she-wolf last evening." His eyes fall on the scarf. "And now she's giving you her favour. There is something there."

If he seeks an explanation, Rhaegar will not give him one. "Are you telling me you've never received one yourself?" He jests, of course. Arthur Dayne is not a man women ignore even if he is sworn to celibacy. And yet he does not look at them. He never has.

"Oh, I have," the other boasts. "But never from a northern maiden such as yours." His fingers barely touch the cloth as Rhaegar pulls his arm away with a laugh. "There is definitely something there."

"But it is not something I will speak of." And that's that. When Rhaegar makes up his mind, others will not get it undone. Some things he cannot share with his friend yet. "I will explain, but not now." His father would have him keeping his involvement with Lyanna a secret for just a little while longer. Rhaegar will not refuse him that. Not when he's so close to attaining what he wants.

His friend nods once to show he understands. "Oberyn Martell will be coming," Arthur tells his Prince. "And he brings his sister Elia with him." Rhaegar thinks he sees something pass over Arthur's features at that, but it's too quick for him to decipher.

House Martell shares some ties with House Targaryen. The Dragons have not yet forgotten there had once been a Queen from Dorne. Whatever Arthur means by telling him that, Rhaegar cannot tell. In some ways his father's guard is as closed as him when it comes to those truths he would rather not have the world know. "That is joyous news," he settles on saying only that.

A moment of silence falls between them. Rhaegar relishes it. There need not always be words, the Prince thinks. Silence is infinitely more eloquent in such times. Arthur Dayne must be of the same mind with him for he speaks not one word to disrupt it. Truthfully, the only words Rhaegar would have right now come from lips too far from him. He wonders a moment about Lyanna's hesitation to share her fears with him. Arthur calls her a she-wolf, and perhaps she is one more than he can see. After all, Rhaegar hasn't known her long. His mind whispers that he'll have a lifetime to know her. He smiles at that thought without even realising. His lips curve on their own. Arthur makes a sound that could very well be a snort, or mayhap an expression of his amusement.

"The King would have us take every pain to make them comfortable," the knight states. Rhaegar does not need to ask what he speaks of.

"The King is right." Loathe as he is to admit it, his father requests the right thing. But to what end? Aerys is not sane, that much is true, yet he's not a stupid person. "Did he say anything else?"

"Nothing of notice." Arthur shifts his position slightly. Little of sense does leave the King's mouth. But Rhaegar would rather not say that out loud, and neither would the knight. The walls have ears. And whatever Aerys plans to do, wiser heads would see the damage made as less as possible.

Light has flooded every nook and cranny of Harrenhall by this time. "We should head back," Rhaegar decides. The first day of jousting is about to begin.


	11. xi

Lyanna approaches with caution. She crouches to the ground with a low growl in her throat. Strange noises are coming from the stables. It almost sounds like someone is getting beaten. The wolf-maiden makes for the doors in a quick sprint once she's back on her two feet, a tourney sword in her hand. The image which greets her makes the girl's blood boil. "That's my father's man you're kicking!" Because, true enough, three squires are bulling the boy she knows to be Howland Reed. And, by the gods, Lyanna will not stand for it.

She sets upon them in the manner only a wolf of the North would. The girl is not much in power and military knowledge, so it serves her all the more to be wearing the colours of her house and to have the mien of a noble woman. The three squired will not hit her for many reasons, the first of which being that she's a high-born lady. Were she any other they'd have called her names and thrown her into the hay by now. Instead the boys beat a hasty retreat leaving a fuming girl and an injured boy, after receiving what will be lasting bruises.

Gray eyes linger on the empty space a moment longer before Lyanna rushes to Reed's side. "Can you stand?" In the end he does manage to stand, and Lyanna leads him away. All the while, she grumbles under her breath. Her father's tent is close by and she cannot stand to see a man in pain. Lyanna is much like her mother, or so they tell her. If asked, she'll laugh. Lyanna'll tell you that while she has something of her mother, she is a wolf of House Stark through and through. People who forget that are often exposed to her temper, which is perhaps as swift as Brandon's.

From a safe distance away, Rhaegar watches with a raised eyebrow. During the altercation he almost goes to her, but seeing that she can hold her own, the Prince doesn't. Those three squires will not get away so easily. But Rhaegar is immensely proud of Lyanna and the way she jumped to the boy's defense. His sweet, wild Lyanna. He half wants to follow her to the tent and marvel at her. He wants to put his arms around her. Rhaegar shakes his head; he wants much of her and now that she is so very, very close he finds that control is hard to maintain.

When the time comes for his first fight, Rhaegar is determined to not be unsaddled. His opponent is Yohn Royce, which only makes it all the more difficult. That man is a mountain. No matter, Rhaegar will not lose this fight. And indeed, he doesn't. Lyanna's scarf remains tied to his arm and he knows that people are whispering. They must, for the daughter of Winterfell has given her favour to their Prince. Rhaegar wears it proudly and almost, but not quite, laughs at the face Brandon Stark pulls. The Young Wolf does not look pleased and makes that abundantly clear to his sister. Lord Stark, on the other hand, levels a long look at him and the Dragon Prince inclines his head in respect.

Then he's riding against Yohn Royce. It is not an easy win. But it is not as difficult as he would have thought. His mind is not on the success. Bright eyes search for his secret betrothed. There is a smile on her face, a subtle twist of her lips, and the glory is his more in that moment than when his opponent crashes to the ground. Rhaegar dismounts and the crowd cheers. He is well-loved. Despite the many distractions, he does manage to notice Lyanna's hand comes to rest upon her heart.

Later he finds her outside the feasting hall. Her smile is different this time. It is wide and full of joy and so much life. Rhaegar cannot help it that he's pulled in. His hands gently hold her shoulders to keep her in place. The Prince wants to admire her. She is looking up at him with something akin to pride. He knows the feeling well enough.

"Your Grace," she breathes the title between them. Then follows a moment of silence. "Your were wonderful." It is not a quiet statement. She speaks most levelled. She tells the truth as she knows it. This knight has won a victory for her. Reaching out she catches his face between her palms and tugs down. He follows her guidance easily enough, and Lyanna rewards him with a kiss. Her lips touch his artlessly, for she knows no other way. Her hands go around him and she clings to him tightly.

He could grab her by that tiny waist and bend her to his will. He could push the boundaries and convince her to give him more. The Gods know he wants more; she would make him mindless if he'd let her. But Rhaegar pulls back with a sharp move as if he's been flayed. The distraught lookon her face has him swallowing hard. "Have a care, my dear." Else his already tenuous control will snap and he might frighten her then, for she cannot be ready just yet.

"Have I displeased you?" She cuts with her words as well as she wielded her sword against those squires. Her aim is true and she is unwilling to back down.

Jarred by the question, Rhaegar lets her go completely. He smiles as one might when indulging a child. "Have you displeased me?" He isn't throwing the query back at her, not really. Touching her cheek gently he tries not to feel disappointed when she flinches. He must remember she is young still. "Lyanna Stark you'd best go to your Lord father now."

"Why won't you answer me?" She won't allow this; he can tell by the way she stubbornly keeps her place in front of him. "Answer me!"

Demanding and impulsive and fiery, Lyanna looks so heartbreakingly beautiful to him. How is he to explain to her his dilemma? He cannot; not in so many words. "I love you," he says instead. Without waiting for her reaction, Rhaegar leaves, entering the hall. He almost curses his wretched mouth for allowing the confession to slip out. But he had to say something, and telling her that she made him act like a boy just out of youth is not it. And it is no lie. He does hold a sort of affection for her. It could grow to be something marvellous in time.

Aerys' Queen eyes him with questions in her stare. He turns his head away. On the morrow he will fight once more. On the morrow he shall explain it better to Lyanna why he would have her close, but not too much.


	12. xii

Wounded pride and lips in a straight line, Lyanna barely looks at Rhaegar. It does not help that he has defeated Brandon Stark this day. It seems to matter little that he wears her favour and the victory goes to her. Lyanna casts her eyes to the ground and Rhaegar almost wishes he would have allowed himself to be unhorsed. But he doesn't, he can't. And her refusal to acknowledge him is worse still than the unfulfilled feeling of the evening past. The crowd cheers for the Dragon Prince but he only wants those gray eyes of hers on him.

"Look at me," he orders her once he's caught her in an empty hallway. She keeps her head down like the obstinate woman she is. Her anger is quick and cutting. "My Lady, look at me. I beg you."

"I am not your lady," she hisses. Lyanna finally looks at him then. Her eyes shine with irritation. "I am not your lady." For whose benefit she repeats the statement, Rhaegar does not know. But he disagrees wholeheartedly. She is his lady.

"Aren't you?" It'll anger her, no doubt, having her words questioned. Rhaegar does it knowingly. "Are you truly not mine?" Because he is hers.

She deflates. Lyanna's back touches the wall. "You didn't even wait for me," she cries then. She calls him stupid and selfish and all sorts of names. "You cannot just walk away! Rhaegar Targaryen, I will not be walked away from." Her hands form fists that hit against his chest. She does not mean to cause any harm in reality.

Gathering her hands in one of his, the man bends to brush his lips to the crown of her head. "Apologies, my Lady." She glares at him. Rhaegar laughs, not in an unkind manner, and captures her mouth with his. This is not like the reward she's given him. She is surprised but does not pull away. Gaining confidence, Rhaegar deepens the kiss. His arms have long slid around her waist and he holds her as close as he can bear.

Something that sounds oddly like a thump breaks them apart. Turning to face the source of the sound, Rhaegar's eyes fall on Robert Baratheon. The stag's face has gone a deep shade of red and the Prince can tell it is not embarrassment. It is for another reason that he reddens at the sight of the lovers. Lyanna bristles in his arms; he can feel her tensing. Rhaegar's own face must be showing his discontent. The other man leaves with a hurried step.

"He planned to ask for my hand," Lyanna tells him a moment later. She laughs, but Rhaegar can tell the thought amuses her naught. "Foolish man."

Tearing his gaze away from the place Robert has previously occupied, the Prince stands, facing her, shocked. "What?" Anger for him is a cold thing. His eyes darken and his voice becomes deeper still than it already is. "What did you say?" Jealousy burns low in his gut. Robert Baratheon has known Lyanna long before him and, whatever she claims, they grew up together. Gods, the man certainly feels himself close enough to her to ask for marriage.

"I did my best to discourage him, but obviously he thought I could be swayed." By which she means that the stag has followed her. "He wanted me to go to my father with him. I refused." Pale, small hands rest on his face. "I told him I wouldn't."

Rhaegar kisses her hard then, almost like he's marking her. "Lord Stark will set him straight." Else it will the he who does, and Robert Baratheon is less likely to escape unscathed. Calming down he presses more gently his lips to hers, almost soothingly. "We should return."

If Lyanna agrees, she doesn't voice it. Instead the she-wolf lures him with another kiss, one of her own innocent shows of affection. She is unhurried and sweet. "Brandon does not take losing easily." She laughs softly. "He will likely remember this for years and years."

A fair warning, Rhaegar thinks. Still, he returns Lyanna to her father's tent. Brandon looks none too thrilled. Eddard's face cannot be read. And Benjen is nowhere to be found. Lord Stark simply nods his head. Lyanna returns to her father's side and it will be hours before they see one another again.

In the meantime, Elia Martell and her brother Oberyn arrive. Rhaegar is among the first to meet her. The Princess of Dorne is likable enough with her dark hair and dark eyes. She is a tall woman with sun kissed skin and an easy smile. It has been said that she is not in the best of health. Rhaegar takes a moment to search her face for any signs of being uncomfortable. She seems well enough.

King Aerys is pleased, a bit too much so. Rhaegar does not allow his thoughts to linger on his father. The Martell siblings are kept close to the King, along with their entourage. The Dragon Prince is drawn into conversation despite his desire to be near Lyanna. It would be rude to not speak with them as House Martell is important, and thus should not be offended. So Rhaegar sees to it that the newcomers are treated as they should be.

Lyanna sits at her father's table with a light frown. A few other noble ladies are giggling over the Dornish Princess and her younger brother. Gray eyes inspect the woman carefully. She is certainly pretty, an exotic sort of beauty. He frame is lithe and tall, Lyanna would look a child next to her. Lyanna is a child next to her. The Princess of Dorne is closer in age to Rhaegar by her looks. Attention falling away from the woman, the wolf-maiden is drawn to the Prince. He has a smile on his face, kind and gentle. Lyanna frowns even more. She shifts in her seat.

Benjen sense her discomfort and grins teasingly. He then proceeds to jape. "My, my, I didn't think you were quite so taken with your knight that you'd forget how to speak." He means to rile her as much as to lighten her mood. In both cases he succeeds admirably. "What? Not one word, dear sister?"

Kicking his leg under the table, Lyanna throws her youngest brother a glare. "What would you know? You're a pup still!" They continue trading half-baked insults with no real spite to them. Lyanna feels all the better, for Benjen doesn't let her win easily.

Rickard Stark, when he has grown tired of the squabbling, has them both apologising to one another. Left with no other choice the sister and brother take to waging a silent war of stares and strategically placed pinches and small hits. It is best left alone and unseen, but it makes both of them feel better.


	13. xiii

Lyanna lets out a sharp cry of surprise when two strong arms circle her waist. Her head turns to find the would-be attacker with a curse and an angry glare. Instead it is Rhaegar that holds her. "You scared the life right out of me!" She leans back into him. "How did you find me?" Lyanna asks. She has not told anyone that she would be here.

It is their last day here. Rhaegar has one more fight. If he wins, he'll pick his Queen of Love and Beauty. Lyanna considers for a moment the possibility that he will choose her and smiles. Lyanna Stark, the Queen of Love and Beauty. It seems almost silly, but she wants it all the same. Not so much the title and the admiring gazes, but knowing he thinks of her like that. Behind her, Rhaegar combs his fingers through her hair. Lyanna closes her eyes briefly and enjoys the attention she's being given. After his apparent closeness to Princess Elia, it is nothing short of relieving.

"Easy enough," Rhaegar replies to her earlier question. Mayhap he can sense her uneasiness for he gives a quick squeeze to her middle. "Talk to me," he encourages.

Such words mark the very essence of what is between them. He trusts that she will confide in him, tell him what is on her mind. Lyanna trusts that he will comfort her, or offer solutions, or simply be there; whichever suits her at that moment. If they are lucky they will find echoes of themselves in the other; the spark, a metaphysical thrill that springs from the very center of their being. Lyanna wants to see their inner workings come together, shift, push and pull until they are irremediably entwined as one.

Blushing, the she-wolf settles more comfortably against him. "Princess Elia is a beautiful woman." The murmur is barely loud enough for her to hear, and she wonders if Rhaegar did not hear it at all. The two of them, him and Elia, seem to get along rather well.

"Elia," he repeats the name with a sigh. Lyanna notices that he uses no titles and winces. Are they that close? "Elia comes on behalf of her sister, as does her brother. They want to form an alliance." He explains it all in a soft voice, so very close to her ear. "They would have Arianne marry Viserys when my brother comes of age. And Daenerys they would have as their next ruling Princess alongside Oberyn."

Daenerys Targaryen is a babe in arms still. Oberyn Martell will be an old man when she becomes a woman. "Just like the other Daenerys," Lyanna says. It is a cruel fate. "Did the King accept?" Poor, poor little Daenerys, to suffer the same as her namesake. Lyanna would ask if anything could be changed, but she knows that it is not the case. Daenerys is duty-bound to marry Oberyn Martell if her father dictates it. On the other hand, Lyanna is filled with relief. Nothing has changed for her. Rhaegar is still to be her husband. Soon, she decides, it must be soon, else she might steal him away and elope. The thought is ludicrous, so Lyanna laughs at it. There is no need for such dramatics.

Rhaegar smiles in her hair. She can feel his lips stretching. "He did not. Arianne will become Viserys' wife, but Daenerys he has other plans for." At that he stops and seems to be considering something. It could be that he's wondering about the King's plans, or mayhap it is a trivial matter altogether. The wheels are turning almost audibly, but Lyanna is content to allow him his silence.

They part with a smile, and reunite with one. Just as she has hopes, Rhaegar wins. He crowns Lyanna with a wreath of roses. They are blue winter roses, native to the North. Rhaegar places the crown on her head. Their eyes meet and hold. A lifetime passes before they can register the cheer of the crowds. The Queen of Love and Beauty stands to her feet. For one moment Lyanna wonders if it is not a dream conjured in the dead of the night. But Rhaegar catches her hand in his, and the warmth of his fingers on hers is real.

From the corner of her eyes she can see other maidens purse their lips or sigh. It's a triumph of sorts. She is better than any other in his eyes, and it pleases her greatly. Rumours spread like wildfire after that. Lyanna hears the whispers in the halls. Some wonder if the Prince will wed her. Some think she's already been bedded. Ladies titter when she passes, and lords and knights gaze at her wherever she steps. At first it does not bother her. They are free to look, she thinks.

After awhile it gets irritating though. So Lyanna does as any other would and rises to leave the hall. Let Lord Whent parade his daughters for the ravenous eyes in the hall. Let the lords and knights watch them, and not Lyanna, for she is sick of so much attention. Let them whisper of Princess Elia and her dark beauty and frailty. Lyanna escapes to an abandoned hallway, a smile on her lips. Let them all think of her as a ghost; as long as Rhaegar sees her she needs nothing more.

And see her he must have. Rhaegar comes from around the corner. There is not much need for words. He notices the weariness in her eyes with ease, and she senses an extreme exhaustion within him. Amethyst orbs do not leave her face. It is a change from what she's seen the past few days. Before her stands a less joyful Rhaegar. He looks a man ready to crumble. Lyanna instinctively reaches out to him.

"Would that it was just us," he says. The small, tired smile on his face has Lyanna grasping his hand. "I dread the dawn. I dread the day to come."

Not wanting to let go, Lyanna touches her other hand too his shoulder. "I would follow you gladly." She pulls back slightly. "I will follow you gladly when the time comes. Until then come back to the feast and make merry." It is sound advice she gives him. Lyanna has learned from him, and others too, that she should be patient even if she would not be, given the choice.

"Allow me, my lady." He offers her his arm. Lyanna does not glance at his face. She can tell the he's put on a mask and she would not see it now. There is time later. When they are old with grown children and grandchildren, they will look back on this and smile. The hardest times will have become the most cherished simply because they will be a testimony to their strength.


	14. xiv

Cersei Lannister looks despondent. Her golden twin has joined the Kingsguard quite recently, as Arthur Dayne wished, and to Tywin Lannister's despair, or so Lyanna has heard from others. She doesn't know Jaime all that well. She's seen him at Harrenhal, but only in passing. Her eyes have been far too busy with another. Now she sees him standing there in his white cloak. He stands tall and proud, and Lyanna is very much aware of those green orbs staring at Cersei. If it makes her uncomfortable the she-wolf hides it well behind a thin smile. The feast they are attending will permit nothing less, nor will her upbringing.

Lyanna sits too far from Rhaegar than she would like, but this is their betrothal feast. It is a grand affair in King's Landing, with many lords and their families present. Not for the first time Lyanna wishes she was a simple woman and Rhaegar a simple man. They could have avoided all this. Alas, she must sit still and act with decorum and try not to stare longingly at her betrothed. She wants it all to be over. Or, at the very least, she would like to have a moment with him alone. Just the two of them together.

A ballad plays, it soothing tones reaching her ears. It is most likely a song of love and fair maidens and gallants princes. How could it be anything else? Lyanna beams graciously to Oberyn Martell when he issues an invitation to dance. Elia's brother is an impetuous man with an easy smile and handsomely swarthy looks. He gives his opinions on some of the stuffier participants that grace the hall and makes jokes in low whispers that only she can hear. Lyanna is reminded of Benjen, although her brother is much younger than the Martell prince.

The flames play a lively game in the hall, on the walls, making shadows stretch out. Through the golden sparks Lyanna sometimes catches a glimpse of Rhaegar as Oberyn twirls her. There are times when he looks at her, and there are times when he is speaking with the Queen. They have danced the first dance together, and a few after that. But it is his duty to stand by his family, as it is hers to stand by hers. They can stand close together only when they dance. Lyanna notices another silver crowned head somewhere at the back of the hall. She excuses herself from Oberyn.

Light steps carry her to Ser Arthur Dayne. He is what they call a valiant knight. The heroes of songs may very well be modelled after him. Lyanna doesn't know him personally, yet they all say he is a friend of Rhaegar's. If Rhaegar values him, he must be a man of valour. Lyanna Stark can see kindness in his face, but she can also see sorrow. It makes her heart clench, the look he wears when he thinks nobody is watching him. "Ser Arthur Dayne, a word," she calls.

Arthur Dayne regards her composedly. He bents over her hand and greets her as any proper man would. "Lady Stark." His deep violet eyes, so much like Rhaegar's, cut through her. It makes Lyanna all the more curious of him. "How may I be of use?"

She has not thought about that. "I simply wanted to meet you," she answers. Lyanna is not much of a liar. She cannot lie so she doesn't try. This she has in common with Ned. The wolf maiden smiles without thought. "Would you care for a dance?"

"If my lady wishes it." He offers her his hand, and there is a moment of understanding passing between them. Arthur Dayne grins, almost boyishly. "You bring my sister to mind."

Glad for the compliment, Lyanna inclines her head. Ashara Dayne is not unknown to her. She's seen the woman at Harrenhal, dancing with Eddard. They spin on the floor. Lyanna cannot help but take note of the way his eyes drift to the side. She tries to circumspectly gauge the object of his pursuit. There is Elia Martell a few tables away. She is talking to another noble woman. Lyanna feels herself chill suddenly, there is a sense of foreboding that creeps over her. "Can a knight be released from his oath to protect the King as his personal guard?"

"Mayhap, if the King so wishes." The Knight says nothing else, nor does Lyanna expect it of him. What he dreams is nearly impossible. Elia Martell is untouchable to him. Perhaps Rhaegar will consent to setting his friend free of his oath when he becomes King. But there is still time to pass until then. Who knows where Elia will be then? At some point many thought Elia would be wedded to Jaime, and Oberys would take Cersei. That had been Joanna Lannister's wish. With her death the plan was abandoned.

Returning to her previous place, Lyanna sneaks a glance towards Rhaegar once more. He is looking back at her. The Mad King distracts his son, and Lyanna finds herself in the company of Cersei Lannister. Cersei is older by a year than Lyanna, but looking at her you would think it is rather more. Tall and slender, with a fine cascade of golden hair, Cersei is much admired wherever she goes. Even now eyes follow her with ill-disguised desire. Other women watch enviously.

For her part, Lyanna greets her respectfully. She is much aware that Brandon wants nothing more than to hold the lioness' attention. It is a slight upon poor Catelyn's devotion to him. Lyanna shakes her head and turns her eyes away from yet another brewing affair of her brother's. Would that Ser Arthur was released and Brandon would take his place. Or mayhap, have him marry Cersei. Catelyn would suit her middle brother better, Lyanna thinks. She signs; these are dreams that fill her mind. She wishes for the godswood and the sacred tree. Here in King's Landing she finds it hard to pray; more so as she does not keep the faith of the Seven. Lyanna is a Stark of Winterfell and keeps to the gods with no name. That much cannot be changed. She can but hope for the best outcome.

Finally, after what seems like an eternity of waiting, Rhaegar approaches her. He takes her hand and they dance again. This song is of her own lands, a little more somber, seemingly detached. Those who don't know the North and its people very well, tend to find them unfeeling. Lyanna will laugh and laugh at that if ever it is said to her face. Northerners are just like any other people; yet she won't tell anyone that. Let them see exactly what they wish to see. Rhaegar does not disturb her thoughts with words, he simply wards away all others with his mere presence.


	15. xv

The black cloak with its fire-red dragon is placed on her shoulders in one fluid movement. Lyanna scarcely has time to breathe before she's no longer a Stark in the eyes of the realm, but a Targaryen. Rhaegar doesn't kiss her with passion. He simply brushes his lips to hers in an almost chaste manner. Lyanna is glad for that. Even wearing the cloak of his house, she feels a Stark, and Starks are cold as ice. They do not bare themselves before the crowd. For the eyes of the people Lyanna will be a dutiful wife, for Rhaegar's eyes only she will be a loving wife.

It is a heavy piece that they've given her to wear, Lyanna decides, as Rhaegar leads her down the Sept's steps. Once she's at the bottom, the King and Queen bade the Prince and his Princess to kneel. A symbolic crown is placed on her head, thin, golden, and very feminine. Lyanna barely feels the circlet. She is far too concentrated on the feeling of Rhaegar holding her hand. He has scarcely let go of it throughout the procession.

With that the official part of the marriage is concluded. Lyanna has passed from her father's hands to her husband's. She has gone from a girl to a Princess in the space of a few minutes. The vows left her lips flowingly enough, she remembers, and also they were spoken in good faith. Much after that she does not recall.

"I do not believe it," Ned says while hugging her gently after her father and older brother have already done so. "My little sister is a wife." He laughs at the absurdity of it, and Lyanna joins him. This may well be the last chance in a long time she'll have to laugh with him. "If ever you have need of me, call and I will answer."

Benjen stands only a little bit away. His eyes are luminous, and the suspicion that he's barely holding back his tears creeps upon Lyanna. She's always been caught somewhere between sister and mother in regards to the youngest of her brothers. Brandon barely knows her, Eddard is a dear friend and a person whose opinion means very much to her; but Benjen is almost a son to her. She has raised him since their mother's death. They have been constant company one for the other. Parting is not easy.

"I'll miss you. Do you know that?" Benjen asks quietly. His hand, which is already bigger than hers, holds onto her arm. "Why does King's Landing have to be so far from home?"

Lyanna's heart squeezes painfully at the mention of home. Winterfell is indeed very far away. "Worry not, brother mine, even if the sea stood between us I would still find a way to cross it over and visit with you."

There's nothing else left to say, so all lords and ladies present make their way to the awaiting feast. Lyanna is on the arm of her new husband, a pale shade of her usual self. She is not unhappy. Rather she is relieved that it is over and done with. For a brief second she lets her mind wander to Winterfell, its godswood and all those people she won't see again.

Not long after, lively songs and loud laughter fills the halls of the castle. Lyanna dances with a great many number of people. She smiles and talks, at ease with her role in all of it. Something else lurks in the dark corners of her mind she doesn't dare acknowledge. While Lyanna has never attended a wedding feast until its very end, she is no stranger to its dark secrets. It terrifies her somewhat that she too will have to live through that.

Endings often come too soon. Lyanna rises with apprehension from her seat and gives a sharp, cutting glare to the males before her. They do not hesitate to grab handfuls of her dress and pull. The material rips, fine glass beads spilling to the floor. Lyanna is almost sad for the beautifully crafted gown. Alas, she does know there is no breaking from tradition, unless she is to shame her husband and her family.

Someone's hand brushes against her bared breast and Lyanna startles. Her head whips around and she comes face to face with Robert Baratheon. He is watching her oddly, as if he wants to tell her something, but he doesn't. Lyanna swats his hand away. "Don't you dare," she warns. It is enough that they've torn her dress to shreds and that they yell ribald jokes in her direction. The last thing she needs is one of them taking liberties. She is certainly glad to see that Ser Arthur Dayne, along with another member of the Kinsguard, follows close behind.

"Baratheon, watch that hand!" the fellow companion of Ser Dayne growls. Before them are drunken men who stand no chance against well-trained, clear-headed soldiers. Lyanna is tremendously grateful for them; she'll have to thank whoever had the brilliant idea of assigning these two to be her guards for the night.

Once she steps in the room, the heavy doors are shut behind her. Rhaegar has made better time for he's already waiting for her there. The torches on the wall and the fire in the hearth spread a warm light throughout the room. Lyanna only then realises that this is to be her last night as a girl. Come morning she'll be a woman.

Rhaegar hold out his hand in an inviting gesture. Lyanna wastes no time in responding. This night the old her will burn away. She'll be born anew. It's a strange, terrifying, magnificent thing that has her head spinning. Is she even ready to let go of all she's known? Her fingers touch the inside of Rhaegar's hand, a jolt shooting though her. If she's not ready now, she'll never be ready. So Lyanna gathers all her courage, breathes in deeply, and moves forwards; because there is never any other direction than forwards.

If the moon has fallen out of the sky and the stars no longer linger on the inky expanse of infinite vastness, Lyanna doesn't know. Her world is no larger than the room she's in. The outside world could be falling apart at this very moment, ripping at its seams, the sky coming down in a rain of small sharp pieces, and she would be content to just stand where she is. A whole lifetime's worth of ideals and dreams is passed between them with one single look, and Lyanna knows that no matter what comes, she'll never regret this.

When the sunlight bleeds through the high windows it is done. Lyanna Stark is no longer, and in her place Lyanna Targaryen has risen. But Lyanna, simply Lyanna, closes her eyes in remembrance. She thinks of snow and flames.


	16. xvi

If shame were lethal, Lyanna thinks she would have died the moment her eyes fell on her father's letter. As it is, she can only bury her face in her hands at the news. "Foolish," she mutters into the skin of her palms. Lyanna supposes she should have thought of this, should have anticipated it, but she admits she hasn't. It is one thing when a man beds a woman of ill-repute; it is quite another for a Lord's son to bed the daughter of his father's bannerman. Unfortunately, her dearest older brother has quite passed the time of games. "Oh, Brandon!"

Rhaegar comes into the solar, as if conjured by her own mind. "How does your family fare, my sweet Lady?" he asks. There is a certain gentleness in his eyes as he poses the question. Does he, by some twist of fate, already know what she's only just found out? But how could it be possible?

She cannot answer him. Lyanna holds the letter towards Rhaegar. "See for yourself, my Lord." While his use of courtesy titles has been more of a game, her voice is flat and cold as the snows of Winterfell. She can't find it in herself to pretend to be otherwise. Not even for him.

He reads in silence for a few moments, and Lyanna doesn't know what she's been expecting. Rhaegar does not allow even half of his feelings to show when he wills it for them to remain secret. Lyanna on the other hand doesn't guard herself quite so when she's only in his company. But the she-wolf never presses. They haven't been married long, and truth be told they don't know one another all that well in mind. But given time, Lyanna knows their bond will become an unbreakable cord tying them together.

"This is grave news." If he has any comments about her brother's behaviour, Rhaegar does not voice them. Lyanna is undecided whether to be grateful for that silence or not. "Can you tell what your father plans to do?"

"My father values honour," Lyanna replies, this time warmer. She is not to take her anger and bitterness out on a man who is guiltless of any crime. "What Brandon did is a stain on that honour. Not only that, he shames his betrothed also. Gods forgive, he is my brother!" Her hands shoot up in irritation. "Poor Cat."

"He will have to marry the Ryswell girl." Were she a woman of lesser rank, they might have managed to hush it all up. "House Tully will not be pleased."

Smirking at the wording, Lyanna almost forgets her grief. "That is an understatement." Old Hoster Tully is likely to die of a poor heart when the news reaches him. "Is there nothing to be done?"

Considering the problem for a moment, Rhaegar bends his head. "There is always Moat Cailin," he ponders out loud. "If your eldest brother were to establish his household there, and your other brother would remain as Lord of Winterfell and marry the Tully girl, it could put an end to this."

"The King would have to approve it," Lyanna whispers, with just a hint of fear. Aerys Targaryen still scares her; there is something unnerving about the old dragon. "Is he likely to agree?"

Truthfully, she knows Rhaegar has no way of answering that. His father is as changeable as the weather. His mind is never made up for long, and he is prone to making decisions to suit his own needs. "I will send him word." He does not promise, and she does not ask it of him.

His hand brushes her shoulder lightly and Lyanna rises to her feet. She has grown tired of this all. "I do believe I will lie down a short while." Her head is pounding like a raging storm, but sleep should cure that. It must be the sudden heat that has come over them.

"I shall see you at mealtime then. Sleep well." Rhaegar presses a kiss to her cheek and leaves for his own business. There are meetings to be held and problems to be solved. Rhaegar likes to oversee all these actions.

This husband of hers is a good man. He'll be an equally good king when the time comes for him to take the throne from the cruel hands of his father. They say that every time a new Targaryen comes into this world the Gods use a coin to decide whether the child will be gifted with greatness, or with madness. The world watches it all with bated breath. Lyanna thinks that if Aerys has been given madness, and his Queen is not all that far from insanity either, Rhaegar must have won the Gods' favour. His destiny must be one of greatness. She does pray that it is.

Climbing into bed, Lyanna buries her face in the cool pillow and drifts off to sleep. She surmises that she must have been more tired than she thought to fall in a sleep so deep after only a few moments. But slumber she does, dead to the world but for soft breaths that leave her lips regularly. Lyanna dreams like any other human. She sees her home and known faces. She feels the snow, and hears it crunching beneath her feet. Lyanna feels the cold biting her skin. She shivers. It is too cold.

One glance to the ground has her shrieking. The snow beneath her feet is stained red. She takes a step back and stumbles to the ground. Something pokes her in the back. The she-wolf tries to get herself up. It is a useless battle because her hands continue to grab at crimson snow. From her position she can see the sky darkening ominously. Winter is coming. The words of her house are a dull roar in her ears. The certainty of them makes her shudder.

Awakening with a start, Lyanna's eyes dart about the room. She is alone, in a tangle of sheets. The woman can taste fear in her own mouth and scowls at it. It is only a dream. It means nothing. That's what she tries to convince herself of. Yet dreams have been known to hide messages. And her dream can reveal nothing good if it is ever to be deciphered. "Winter is coming," she says, and looks out the window. The sun is till shining over expanses of green, but she knows it not to be a lasting thing. "Winter is coming." Lyanna leaves the bed and journeys to the window. The Stark have always known.

Soon enough she will be called to have her meal with Rhaegar. Lyanna strides away from the window and makes her way to the small table on which she's left her comb. She brushes her hair absently, her thoughts on dreams once again.


	17. xvii

Wintefell is a cold place. Rhaegar shivers at the cool kiss of the wind, leading his horse steadily down the road. Lyanna seems less bothered, but he can see her pulling her furs tighter around her. All these months spent in the South have lessened her tolerance for the wintry weather, but not by much. Rhaegar follows his wife to wherever she wishes to lead them. Lyanna has expressed her desire to go ridding, and he is not one to refuse her. So they make their way through the snow.

"The godswood," she points it out to him. It is a cluster of trees as far as he can see. Lyanna makes for the place. "I spent many hours here as a child." She has told him about those, about red blood on white snow and youth folly. The dagger hasn't left its thin chain around her neck. "Would you join me?"

Rhaegar keeps the Faith of the Seven, but his wife has been raised with the old gods. He inclines his head, "Lead the way, Lyanna." He is in awe at the sight presented to his eyes. The weirwood tree with its colourless bark and blood-filled eyes waits for them just over a small body of water.

He dismounts and helps Lyanna off her own horse. Together they walk, hand in hand, to where the thick roots pierce the earth. Lyanna touches the wood almost reverently and bows her head. Rhaegar stands there still captivated by those sightless orbs and roughly carved face. The red leaves hang low. Lyanna too can reach them if she stretches, and Rhaegar can grab a handful of them if he so wills. He touches one of those scarlet leaves. It is frail and soft and cold, but vibrant and alive all the same. The North is a place filled with antagonistic facts and situations.

In the books he's read there is not much written of the North. There are bits and snippets of tales long forgotten, but now that Rhaegar is before a weirwood tree, a certain legend comes to mind. "It is said that the First Men would have their marriage ceremonies under such trees."

"Oh, it is more than that," Lyanna says after a moment. She's looking at him now. "You see, it is believed that the old gods reside in weirwood trees. To ensure that the marriage would be a blessed one, the newlyweds would spend their first night under the tree's branches."

"Is that so?" Rhaegar bends to kiss her lips. "Then perhaps we ought to ask for their blessings also." Lyanna laughs against his mouth, her arms wrapping around him. He pulls her closer.

"Would that we could, but my brother is as fond as I am of this place." She pulls back slightly. "Maybe after the feast is over, we could sneak out."

Together they leave for Winterfell once again. Today should be a joyous day, yet it is not. Lyanna mourns that. Yet it is done and nothing will change it. Brandon Stark has sealed all their fates with his thoughtless behaviour. He's gone to Moat Cailin along with his new wife, to build himself a life with her. The damage however is not gone.

Catelyn Tully was distraught when she found out of Brandon's actions. Hoster Tully barely even consented to have her married to Eddard instead. The only consolation was that his daughter would still be Lady of Winterfell. Brandon has been removed from the succession, but otherwise remained unharmed. King Aerys has given in to his son's demands thankfully. Yet it was Catelyn that has been affected most of all. She's lost a man she thought she loved in cruel way.

The young bride is in her chambers. Lyanna parts from Rhaegar with a promise and a soft kiss. Catelyn smiles in greeting, but her eyes are sad. She seems to struggle for words. "Your Grace, it is good to see you again."

"You need not stand on titles with me, Cat. I would still call you friend, if you would permit it." At that the other woman breaks down in tears. Lyanna joins her on the edge of the bed and does her best to soothe her. "It is not ideal, I know that. But Eddard is a good man. He will treat you right."

"But it was Brandon I have always thought I would marry," Catelyn whispers in Lyanna's shoulder. "He said he loved me. He told me with his own mouth."

"Do you love him?" Lyanna considers this question a more important one for so many reasons. Catelyn barely even knows Brandon. How can you feel the loss of something that is not even in your grasp. "Do you?"

Hoster's daughter seems to consider the question for a brief moment. "No. But that does not make it hurt less." A blow to one's pride is rather painful, after all. "He must think her better than me."

"Well, I know for certain that my brother doesn't think," Lyanna says most gravely. "At all. Brandon is wilful to a certain extent, and to his own grief, he has found that this rashness will bring him trouble. Eddard is not like that. Were I given a chance to choose, I would pick Eddard."

"What would your husband say?" This time Catelyn is amused; it can be heard in her voice. "I imagine it would not go too well, him being the Prince and all."

Throwing her head back, Lyanna fills the room with laughter. "I rather agree. It is a good thing then that you are to marry my brother and avert any such dangers." She leans closer to Catelyn. "Just between the two of us, our men are similar of mind and disposition." There is a moment of understanding between them. "Give it time and a chance to grow."

"I thank you for the advice." Catelyn wipes the remaining tears away. She puts on a brave smile and holds out one of her hands. "You must tell me about your own marriage though. Are you happy? Do you love him?"

"I am certainly fond of him," the she-wolf confesses. "We get on well, the two of us. Rhaegar treats me with respect, and in return I am a good wife to him. Maybe this is what love is." The songs omit so many parts. Only now does Lyanna see it. "Both partners have to put in an effort. You have to want to make it a successful marriage."

Love and the matters of the heart cannot be commanded. But it is also true that love can be built over time. Lyanna think Cat just needs to know Ned better. Once they've grown used to one another, the rest will follow naturally. She herself feels her love for Rhaegar growing every day, with every new detail she learns about him.


	18. xviii

A black raven bring the joyous message from the North. Catelyn Tully Stark has given birth to a boy. They've named him Robb, for Robert Arryn. Lyanna is tremendously happy for that. She prays to the gods, old and new, to keep the babe and his parents in good health. On a more intimate note, Catelyn has sent Lyanna her thanks, stating that she finally understood her words. Rhaegar has asked Lyanna what those words were, yet the she-wolf would tell him nothing.

Lyanna herself has grown round with child, and will be delivering it by the year's end. Although she tires more easily these days, Lyanna insists on having daily walks in the gardens. She is content with her life, and she often tells Rhaegar so. They have grown very close these past few months, what with Aerys getting more and more unstable. The Mad King is alienating every one of his supporters. They flock to Rhaegar urging him to see to their safety and his own.

Such thoughts have him sitting in his solar when Lyanna chooses to pay him a visit. His wife enters with slow steps. "You have been here for hours," she tells him, her voice hinting at reproach. "I've scarcely seen you at all today, my Lord." She takes a seat on the chair next to the window overlooking the garden. Lyanna would tell him that she missed his presence, but she holds her tongue on that. He has his own responsibilities which at times take him away from her. But can she help it if she wants him close? They've spent five moons in the North together, and since coming back he has retreated somewhat. "Have I displeased you somehow?"

He looks startled at the question that leaves her mouth. It brings back memories of another evening not too long ago. Wiser now, Rhaegar shares his worries with her. He tells it all as it comes to him, and Lyanna sits back and listens. "I have been neglecting you, have I not? Apologies, sweet Lady." He doesn't mean to, yet all these troubles are piled up on his shoulders and he can't overlook them.

She is about to say something but stops rather abruptly. Her lips remain parted and she blinks in a manner that suggests bewilderment. "Come here a moment," Lyanna calls, extending her hand in invitation while the other is pressed to her middle. The urgency in her words has Rhaegar jumping from his seat and by her side in a few long strides.

"Are you well?" She shakes her head and grabs his arm. Rhaegar regards her worriedly. Lyanna places his hand on her stomach, both her hands coming atop of his. At first everything is calm. He is about to ask her if he should call the master, but then he feels it. It is a light shift underneath her skin, a movement not very easily detected, but it is there. Her fingers are clutching his hand hard now.

"He hasn't done this before," she murmurs, voice oddly thick. For some reason Lyanna is sure this child will be a boy. Rhaegar would be very happy with a girl too, for the sole reason that he and Lyanna have created it together. As if sensing that they talk of the yet born child, the babe delivers a strong kick. There can be no doubt this time. "I do believe my hands will be full with this one."

Lowering himself onto his knees, Rhaegar presses one side of his face to Lyanna's bulging middle. If he tries hard enough he can almost hear the child moving. Now that he thinks of it, this child was likely conceived in the frozen North. He wonders if maybe they did get a blessing from those old gods of hers with their carved faces and bright crimson stares. "You still refer to our child as a he."

"Because he will be a boy," Lyanna assures him once more. "A woman knows these things, Rhaegar." Or rather she hopes that she does. This is their first child after all. "It will be a boy."

"As long as the babe is healthy, I am happy be it boy or girl." And then fear grips him after those words have been uttered. There are so many things that could go wrong. He could lose this child, he could lose Lyanna. Rhaegar stares at her smiling face and dread fills him. He was not all that young when Daenerys was born, he still remembers the scent of blood when he entered his mother's rooms. The Queen had been pale and only half awake. For days she hadn't gotten out of bed. The masters thought she would die. She hadn't, of course, but Rhaegar still remembers it with horror.

Perhaps Lyanna can sense the change in him, or maybe his eyes show it, for she cradles his cheek in her warm palm. "All will be well, you'll see. You need not fear for me or our son." She is not ignorant. Lyanna knows she is in danger. But so are many other women and they managed to survive despite it. In fact, far weaker women than her have successfully brought to this world babes. There are mothers younger than her too. "My Lord would do well to remember that he married a Stark of Winterfell. We are not weak."

"Of course you are not." Her strength may not be in her handling of a battle weapon. But Rhaegar has learned that there are many kinds of strength. "I cannot lose you though. Try to understand." Because if she does perish bringing this child into the world, Rhaegar will be half-dead too. What life is there without her? An empty, barren, endlessly stretching desert. A sea of nothingness.

"You won't lose me." Lyanna's smile is kind and comforting. She finds that soothing his fears also soothes hers. In a few moons her arms will be holding her son and Rhaegar will have an heir. And Gods be willing, Lyanna will fill his halls with children. They will watch their babes grow together. "You won't ever lose me, Rhaegar."

Seemingly placated the Prince rises to his feet, pulling her along with him. "We must make an appearance at the table, my Lady, or the servants will start fearing we've been taken by the Others."

The Lord and Lady of Dragonstone don their masks of neutrality. Rhaegar sits at the head of the table, one of his men conversing with him. Lyanna sits a bit away, preoccupied with her own meal. She listens with half-an-ear to the conversation, mentally taking notes to ask questions later. She is still learning, Rhaegar knows, and he is ever ready to be of help to her. She is in the South now, away from the snow covered planes.


	19. xix

Their firstborn is of the North, that much is clear. Rhaegar sees it the moment he enters Lyanna's chambers. The babe sleeps quietly in her arms, all dark hair and fair skin. Lyanna looks up to him, her eyes widening just slightly. She makes to rise, but he shakes his head. "Remain as you are," Rhaegar says, continuing to the bed.

His business has taken him away for a few days. But now he's back, and he has become a father. It is odd, he thinks, that he could have missed such an important moment. For a brief moment he sees an image of an exhausted Lyanna, gaunt and pale. Wrenching it away, Rhaegar chooses to observe his wife and child instead. Lyanna does look tired, but not like a woman dying. And the boy in her arms in an image of his Northern mother. In the end Lyanna is right, as Rhaegar recalls her telling him they would have a boy.

She holds the babe up for him to inspect. "May I present your son to you, Your Grace?" She is formal and sweet at the same time, trying to hold her joy in and act a proper lady. And she is also proud. Rhaegar can see it in her eyes.

Sitting on the edge next to her, Rhaegar touches the child's head. "Your gods have blessed us. Just like you said they would." He smiles, a gentle movement of his lips at that thought. The babe stirs, yet he does not wake, content to doze away in his mother's arms. This is his heir. Rhaegar cannot take his eyes off of the tiny bundle Lyanna is holding. He is so small and fragile looking. If his memory serves right, Daenerys was smaller when she was born, but still, he can hold the boy in his hands only. His dark hair feels silky against Rhaegar's palm, the head petite and so very breakable. A knot in his throat, the new father pulls his hand back.

"Would you like to hold him?" Lyanna encourages. If she can see the hesitation in his eyes and in the set of his mouth, she does not comment on it. Instead, the newborn is placed in his arms with the care only a mother can show. Lyanna leans back against the pillows and smiles tiredly. "He hasn't cried much. I was worried, but they said that it was not something to be frightened of." Her eyes close for a second and she sighs.

"He looks like you." And again, Rhaegar is struck by the size of this tiny human being. The boy, if he can hear them, does not acknowledge the presence of his parents. He is quiet, strangely so. Rhaegar remembers that Viserys was a loud babe, always crying for one thing or another. Daenerys not so much, but none would call her quiet. This one in cradled in his arms may have looks resembling his mother's but he acts like his father. "Have ravens been sent to King's Landing and Winterfell?"

"I thought you might want to send them yourself." Lyanna takes the baby back to her chest. "Truth be told, I found it too tiring. It is just as well that you've returned." And then she frowns. "What shall we name him?"

Rhaegar could insist upon a Targaryen name if he wanted to. But he doesn't. This is Lyanna's first child, and the Prince does not doubt there will be more he might name at a later date. "I would hear your thoughts upon the matter."

Lyanna shifts. "I was thinking that we might name him Jon. You've said it yourself, Rhaegar, it is the old gods that have blessed us with him."

It is a tribute to her gods that she wants. Rhaegar considers it. "Jon is a good name." That settles it. He shall be Jon Targaryen, the first of his name, when the time comes for him to take the throne. It is there in the distant, uncertain future.

Silence is a lull between them. Rhaegar tries to picture this future in his mind. He thinks of all those stories and legends, and cannot help but wonder. There are so many of them, promised princes and saviours of the world. The tree-headed dragon of his family for instance. Rhaegar spares another glance to Lyanna and the babe. His wife is no simple vessel. She is the woman whom he is fond of, the woman he loves better than his own soul. To be sure, he liked her the moment he met her, yet this is different. They are no longer just Rhaegar, and just Lyanna.

When he was but a boy the tale of Azor Ahai fascinated him. Now he knows better. His eyes fall upon Lyanna every day, and it is with dread that he thinks of that story of old. Azor Ahai no longer seems grand and powerful. He is a man who had to murder his own wife. And Rhaegar looks at Lyanna every day, knowing that he's much sooner cut off his own hand than hurt her. The fool that he was wished to have been Azor Ahai. Now he wishes that fate upon no one. A little wiser, Rhaegar puts these prophecies away, locking them deep into his mind. The humans will save themselves as they've always done. They might stumble and fall to their knees, but then they'll get back up and march on. The weak die and the strong live.

"What are you thinking of, Rhaegar?" Lyanna has placed Jon next to her on the bed, and she watches him intently. He could tell her. He should. "Come now, we shall find answers together."

"Of old tales, Lyanna." She seems surprised. Rhaegar laughs lightly. "Our trip to Winterfell awoke in me the taste for such fables. I was trying to remember that story of yours with undead and beings of ice." They cannot be true. It is not possible.

"You speak of the Night's King and his Queen." There is a haunted look in Lyanna's eyes. "When I was small, Ned would sometimes listen with me to those stories. I could never get a full night's rest after one of Nan's tales. Scary things."

Beyond the Wall there are only Wildling. It is well-known. White Walkers exist only in Old Nan's fictions. They have perished, if ever they did walk the earth. Or so they say in the Seven Kingdoms. But Lyanna has ever known that winter is coming, and it will bring with it frost and darkness. She touches Jon's face and her other hand grasps Rhaegar's. The Night's King and his Queen are only dust now, their bones and flesh reduced to nothingness. It is the fate of any creature to someday perish. Winter is coming, and Lyanna will not let herself be defeated.


	20. xx

Arthur Dayne gets a good look at the babe is Princess Lyanna's arms. A head-full of dark hair and the stormy eyes of his mother promise he'll grow up with the looks of a Stark. King Aerys' lips have thinned in a straight line, but he does no more than stare at the child with coldness. The Queen smiles one of those twists of lips that have many things to hide and reaches out to take the child from her good-daughter's arms. Oddly enough, Arthur has the wild impulse to stop her. This child is an innocent brought before mad dragons.

He can see that Rhaegar's own eyes are weary as he answers the questions addressed to him. Lyanna's face is a mask of serenity, and Arthur can only commend her. She has learned so much since Harrenhal and her betrothal feast. Standing before him is no longer a child, but a woman who knows the burdens she must carry are great. She has married her Prince, but hadn't known what waited for her. Now she's different, grown and proud, and all those things that make her look more a queen than the Queen. Lyanna Stark Targaryen has finally earned the name her husband has given her.

They've named the child Jon. When he is assigned to guard the little one and his mother, Arthur is quickly reminded of Lyanna's friendliness to him. There is still innocence is the mother's eyes, and Arthur smiles sadly. She is a child of Summer. Her own son is a child of Summer. They have known not true sorrow. Would that it never changes. "Your Grace," he greets her softly.

"They were not pleased," Lyanna says. Maybe she's not talking to him but he listens anyway. "Jon looks like me, and they were not pleased. Rhaegar, may the Gods keep him, has not said a word of it to be but I can tell all the same."

"The Prince loves his son." Because it is quite true. Rhaegar loves his wife and the boy she's given him. "He could never be more pleased." The King's heir drinks in the image of his small family and there is so much unspoken affection in his eyes that, sometimes, Arthur thinks the man will crumble underneath it all.

"I know. Yet he is not one to disappoint his parents. He never was, I'm sure." Rhaegar is a man of many talents, and equally many failings. Lyanna cradles the child, rocking him gently. "Perhaps the next child will be different." And yet Jon is not even weaned.

"You could give him a hundred children with his fair looks and they would not replace this one in his heart." Arthur knows Rhaegar well enough to be sure of his words. Lyanna looks at him a bit surprised as if just realising that she hadn't been talking alone., to thin air

"Ser Arthur, you ought to have married and made some lucky woman a happy mother." Her words touch him. Lyanna gives the child in his awkward hold, and smiles softly. "There. You see?" She nods her head as if this all makes sense on some greater level.

Jon is a quiet baby. Arthur thinks there is quite a lot of Rhaegar is the boy's character if not in his looks. He tries to think of holding a child of his own, and the very heart of him quivers. A tiny creature with silver hair and violet eyes. Jon Targaryen whines softly all of a sudden, startling him out of his thoughts. He hands the boy back to his mother and watches with fascination as the tiny human settles down.

"I do believe he is tired. Jon has taken to spending his nights awake," she comments. At the worried look on the knight's face Lyanna laughs. "At first I thought something was wrong, but he doesn't cry unless he has need of something. My son simply likes the night, I suppose."

It is a fast, true friendship that is born between Knight and Lady. Arthur is bound by his vows, and can never have what Rhaegar has. Lyanna grows closer to him, and he thinks more and more of Ashara when his eyes land on her. She is a sister to him, as true as the one his own mother gave him. There may not share blood, but she is a sister to him nonetheless.

Rhaegar is Rhaegar, that much hasn't changed. The Prince is quiet too, and worried, brooding over the problems of the realm as his father's madness grows. Yet there is something not quite the same. When he asks, Arthur is surprised to find Rhaegar has buried dreams of heroic deeds. "My friend, so much has changed." The Prince tells him this with nostalgia.

Not one for spectacles, Rhargar proves his devotion to his wife in many other ways that do not require words. Lyanna wants for nothing, and she is well-protected. Her husband stands by her the same way she does for him. And Arthur is strangely jealous of them. He will never know what it is like to have a wife of one's own but duty. And duty is a cold lover, distant and unfulfilling. Yet he has chosen this way, and he must continue on it. The Gods have not seen fit to give him what he craves, but despite the pain, Arthur takes care of Rhaegar's family as if it were his own.

"There will come a time when you will understand," Rhaegar promises. Arthur doesn't believe that, or rather he thinks he does understand but not the same way as his old friend. "Trust me, Arthur, you will understand."

With that promise given, Rhaegar leaves him to go to his own family. Arthur turns his eyes away from the sight of him embracing his wife and kissing her lips, there in the middle of the hall. The babe in her arms peers at his parents curiously, making a small sound that has both giving him their attention. Arthur turns to go, taking his customary position at the King's doors.

From inside a woman's cry emerges. Arthur's head snaps at that. The Queen is hysterical, her husband no better. They yell and fight. Not all are blessed with a marriage such as Rhaegar's. Not all women are like Lyanna. Arthur pulls back as the door is swung open. The Queen passes by him without a glace. It is treason, in a way, but he wishes Rhaegar would take the crown. Else they will all perish in the fire those two mad people stoke, the flames will swallow them.

Aerys has the doors closed, and he can be heard muttering through them. Arthur fixes his stare upon a stone in the wall and tries not to hear. What good could it possibly do to listen to a madman like him?


	21. xxi

Lyanna snaps forward, fast as a whip stroke, and comes to regret it. The wooden sword she's using is a heavy thing that weighs her down. Rhaegar's blow is not strong enough to cause damage, but the stinging pain is unavoidable. Unlike the gentleness he displays when sharing her bed, on the battlefield he has a brutality of sorts. She's seen it at Harrenhal. She sees it when he trains with other man. With her, he is more careful, but not lenient. Here she is not his wife, thus the wood bites into her skin, leaving her aching with it.

Their constant back and forth comes at varying speeds. Now and then they move like a summer storm, soft and swift. After, they become a sliding avalanche, heavy and no less rapid. And sometimes they are a downpour, blows raining down, too many to count. Lyanna keeps up as best she can, lands a few hits of her own, but takes most of them. But she learns, and that is the most important thing.

"Your grip is too tight," Rhaegar observes. He takes her wrist and makes her let go of her weapon. "Like this," he instructs, settling her hand back over the hilt, long fingers lingering a moment too long around hers.

Pulling away gently, Lyanna raises her sword. She's ready for another try. And try she does. The next attack she makes is a full-on charge. Of course she misses. Rhaegar sidesteps her and brings the weapon down on her. Lyanna breathes hard, and smiles at the feeling of it against her neck. The wood is sturdy against her skin, real and hard and threatening. Were this steel she would have been dead already. "I yield."

And with that they are done in the yard for the day. Lyanna looks at her breeches, dusty, but not ripped. Her hands however sport small cuts from when she's landed on her palms to cushion the fall. Small pieces of stone have torn through the flesh. It does not hurt, though it is uncomfortable. There is a negligible ache in her shoulder and a sparkle in her eyes as they ascend the stairs. Rhaegar turns his head towards her, eyes dark with something she's never quite sure what to call.

Violet orbs trail down her form. They have reached the top of the stairs and are slowly ambling to the door of her rooms. The two enter, solid wood closing the entrance behind them. "I never quite understood why women were confined to their dresses until now," he tells her, a purr in voice that travels the length of her from head to toe. Rhaegar simply steps behind her, arms winding around her middle to pull her flush against him. Gently curving forms to sharp angles, Lyanna lets out a hiss through gritted teeth.

"Oh," she says eloquently. What else is there, when his hands caress her sides and she melts into him like winter into spring? One hand comes up to turn her face to him so that he may better kiss her lips. The other falls to the hem of her tunic and pulls the fabric up so that it remains between them as he ravages her mouth. "Rhaegar, please."

Whirling her petite form around, the man grabs at her long shirt with both hands, the material bunching, and sliding upwards, and coming over her head to reveal a plain white linen chemise. With a short sound of frustration, Rhaegar rids her of this encumbrance as well. Her body remembers his touch very well, is so accustomed to it in fact that she reacts even if only to his presence.

She is half naked, surrounded by the light that comes through the windows. Rhaegar leads her backwards to the bed. When he has her on her back, the breeches are taken off of her in a slow, tantalising manner. Lyanna squirms and rises in irritation, kicking them off. He acts like they have all the time in the world. And they don't. Now with all these duties waiting. Sensing the urgency in her, Rhaegar takes off his own garments.

They burn together in a tangle of writing bodies and limbs. Husband and wife move to a timeless song, its melody not heard, but rather felt with fingertips, open palms and lips. This song that comes from deep within. They meld together, flesh slick and smooth and movements rapid. The edge is sharp and cutting and so very close; they tumble together over it.

In the aftermath Lyanna feels herself cool and sighs as Rhaegar lift his frame off of hers. She is grateful when she feels him next to her again, and is dimly aware of the coverings that have been dragged over them. She shift and buries deeper into his side. His fingers caress her arm fondly and Lyanna cannot help but open her eyes.

Looking to where his hand is, she notices the fading bruise on her arm. Rhaegar is watching the same spot with something of a mix between guilt and chagrin. "Stop that," she says, pushing lightly at his shoulder. "I asked you to teach me." In fact she has been the one to suggest it even as his face had been a mask of doubt and uncertainty.

"You're bruised all over," is his retort. The anger is not directed at her, rather at him. And she does have a collection of bruised that decorate her skin. Rhaegar has not broken her thin covering even once, but training swords must leave marks if they are to be used properly. She scowls as his palm presses to a fresher blooming bruise. "You are hurting."

"I've hurt worse," she replies sharply. She has bled, and been opened wide to bring his son into the world. And while holding him is worth every ripping pain she felt knifing through her, Lyanna still knows that what she has endured there far surpasses a few hits of a wooden sword.

Suddenly he is kissing her. At least he is still willing to teach her. Lyanna knows there is hardly any pleasure in it for him. Rhaegar is not a violent man, hitting women does not sit well with him. The only reason for which he doesn't stop training her is because he wants her to become better. If ever she is put in a situation in which she must protect herself, Rhaegar would rather she have a fighting chance.

Knowing that as she does, Lyanna allows him the time to soothe her sore bruises, and admonish her for this promise she has convinced him to give her. "The Gods know what you would do with real steel in your hands," he teases. Lyanna would probably get herself in trouble.

"Whatever that would be, I'd have you by my side." She knows it to be true.


	22. xxii

Robert Baratheon comes to court. He is joined by his brother Stannis, whom Lyanna is pleasantly surprised to find is not so much like his brother. Robert's eyes linger on her too long after she's spoken; the heat of those blue orbs disconcerting as it is distracting. She is reminded of her wedding night, and shudders ever so slightly. Robert smiles at her, a grin that has her lowering her head. The rumour has it that he will marry Cersei Lannister. Lyanna remembers Jaime's twin with her flowing honey tresses and green eyes. Robert will marry Cersei, and still he looks at her with something a little between lust and anger.

"Allow me to congratulate you, Your Grace," Robert says, bowing over her hand. His hand lingers on hers a little too long, his grip a bit too tight. "May your Prince live long and prosper."

"May the Seven hear your words," she replies, evading his grip. Lyanna wishes for Rhaegar. Robert would not dare be so free with his stares were her husband with her. However, Rhaegar's presence is needed elsewhere though, and Lyanna must fend off this problem all on her own. "It is most kind of you."

Stannis, may the Seven keep him, is blatantly unaware of his brother's play. But than again, Stannis is a grave man who thinks little of Robert's constant flirtations. He offers his words of respect and the perfunctory bow, and with that he leave the Princess be. Would she that Robert did the same instead of trapping her in conversation. The Gods do not see fit to spare her his company, so Lyanna forces a smile on her face and sweetness to her voice. It cannot be all that bad to exchange a few words with the man.

"And I must congratulate you on your betrothal to Cersei Lannister, I hear." Tywin's daughter is so lovely, no doubt Robert will leave her in peace once he has her for wife. "May the Gods give you every happiness."

A shadow passes over Robert's face at that. "Many thanks, Your Grace. I am certain that it will be so." Somewhere in the back of the room, Cersei is talking to her twin. Robert doesn't acknowledge them. "Where is the little Prince?"

"Jon is yet a babe," Lyanna laughs good-naturedly. The subject of her son softens her and gives her pleasure. "It will be some time before he'll be fit for company." Her boy, only six moons old, is in the nursery, probably asleep by now; just as Lyanna wishes she could be. Time flies by when one sleeps. The faster it does, the quicker Rhaegar will return to her. "I am truly happy for you, Robert. Cersei is a beautiful, refined lady who will bring you pride." Cersei would bring anyone pride, she considers.

Yet as she says those words, Lyanna once more looks upon the twins to see Jaime's longing stare and Cersei's sullen expression. Pride, indeed, Lyanna thinks. Those two were are in the company of one another when they find themselves in the same room.

"Your Grace," Robert calls, his hand briefly touching her arm. "Are you not feeling fine, Your Grace?" Deep blue eyes study her fervently. He awaits her words.

Startling out of her reverie, Lyanna shakes her head, bringing a hand up to her temple. "I shall be fine in a moment." She feels light-headed. Lyanna stands and makes her way to where the Queen and King are seated. "Pray, allow me to retreat, Your Grace," she addresses the King.

Aerys stares at her strangely but nods. Rhaella rises too and nods to Aerys. "Come then, I shall join you." The Queen is followed by her handmaids and they depart the premises together. Once they are safely in the hallway, away from prying eyes, Rhaella takes Lyanna to her own rooms. There she places her hand on the younger woman's middle. "Ah, but you are quick to take my son's seed," she proclaims, a smile blooming on her face.

"It cannot be," Lyanna gasps. But when she does stop to think about it, the she-wolf flushes with the realisation that indeed it is possible. Her palms automatically come to rest upon the still flat surface.

She thinks of Rhaegar and his reaction to the news. Lyanna can almost see those lilac eyes sparkling with joy. He might even voice it. The she-wolf smiles softly as her hand strokes the spot where her babe has already started forming. Jon is little still, he'll grow with siblings his own age, siblings he'll not be parted from like she. The image of the dark haired son and a fair-haired other one makes her eyes water for a moment. It would be a fine thing to have another boy, Lyanna considers. The succession will be safe then. A boy with the silver tresses of his father and deep violet eyes, Lyanna sends a prayer heavenwards for that.

Rhaegar will be back, Lyanna knows, but not soon enough for her taste. She would have him with her now, not in two moons. The Gods know how far along she is now. By the time he gets back she might even be full and rounded. Lyanna does so wish to surprise him. By a fashion she will, but it would be so much sweeter to have him know nothing of it until she whispers it in his ear. Even if it does not quite turn out like that, Lyanna will be well pleased to have Rhaegar back when he does arrive. If he takes too long she'll just present him with a new child.

Jon is brought to her by one of the maids once she enters her rooms, pink-faced and squealing. The boy does not settle even in her arms. He burns with a fever she has yet to encounter. Lyanna looks at the boy and frowns. And he still burns. "Bring me the Maester!" Lyanna yells out. She is frightened of the crying, because Jon is a quiet boy and he shouldn't be making so much noise.

Just when she thinks her summon will go unnoticed, a Maester steps through the door. "My Lady," he greets, bowing down to her. "You have summoned me."

"Help him; help my son." Her voice is almost weak, almost frail. "Save him. Do whatever you must, and save my son." Lyanna breathes in sharply. She stands there as the man puts his hands upon her son and the very heart of her squeezes painfully at the next wail of her boy. To give birth is a hard thing; to be a mother is even more difficult. "See him through this, I beg you," she whispers to the Gods, the old and new. No one has ever told her being as mother could bring such fear searing through her bones.


	23. xxiii

Rhaegar returns earlier than expected. Among those that greet him are his friend, ser Dayne, and his brother and sister. Rhaegar does not see his wife and son anywhere. The last time he understood. Lyanna had just given birth and she couldn't very well be up and about. But now? What keeps his wife now, Rhaegar wonders. As he makes his way towards her rooms, a chastisement on his lips; the man stumbles upon the Queen.

"My son, you are back." Rhaella says, her soft eyes are full of pain and sorrow. She looks uncertain. The Queen opens her mouth to say something more, yet she doesn't.

"Mother, what troubles you?" Rhaegar will put away his own woes for the time being, and see to the well-fare of this woman who gave him life. "Let me help."

"It is not I that needs your aid," the lie slips out. Rhaella has learned her lines very well, no lie sounds like the untruth it is coming from her lips. At the very least her lord husband has gifted her this, the ability to deceive. She changed the subject before her son can ask again. "I fear 'tis your wife who needs the help."

"Lyanna? What happened to Lyanna?" The Lyanna he remembers is healthy and happy, with a smile on her face and a babe in her arms. "Or is it Jon?" Fear sinks cold fingers in his chest, wrapping the icy digits around his heart. "Tell me."

"He caught a fever," the woman finally confesses, after moment of staring at her son's darkening face. When angered, he sometimes resembles Aerys. Rhaella fears then. Rhaegar is not supposed to be like Aerys. He is so different that this resemblance produces knots in the Queen's stomach. "You ought to see them. Your wife has taken the boy to her own rooms." With that she moves on, leaving her son to his own troubles.

His wife's door is closed when he reaches it. Rhaegar looks behind him to see that Arthur has finally caught up to him. "You knew," the Prince hisses, wretched and full of terror. "Why didn't you say anything?" They are friends, Gods damn it. Why does he have to find out like this? "Why?"

"It was not my place," Arthur offers. The sword at his side dangles and Rhaegar feels the anger swell in his. "Your Grace, the Princess demanded we keep quiet. I am bound to see her order carried out."

"You are bound to protect the King," Rhaegar reminds him coldly, not without venom in his voice. "Go. Do your duty." He cannot see anyone right now. Rhaegar stands at the door, thinking that Lyanna herself might hear some choice words from him. Why did she not send a raven? He would have turned right around without hesitation.

The moment the door is open and he steps in, Lyanna rushes in his arms. "You're back." Her eyes are red-rimmed, her face tired. Rhaegar feels all the fight going out of him. How could he berate her when she looks likely to fall apart at any moment? "Gods, you're back. I thought you'd never come."

"How is Jon?" The boy is sleeping in the bed, but his father can see the beads of sweat trickling down his pasty skin. Damp brown hair clings to his face, and from time to time the child whimpers. "What has been done for him? Where are the Maesters?"

"They say it is passing," Lyanna answers. "A childhood illness he should surpass on his own. Rhaegar, they can do nothing. He is too small for milk of the poppy though he wakes in pain every night." Her eyes are full of tears threatening to spill over. "I cannot help him. I cannot do anything for him." She goes back to the boy's side, with a wet cloth wiping away the sweat. "What sort of mother am I?"

Placing a hand lightly to the boy's forehead Rhaegar feels the burning skin. "Viserys had one of these when he was small." And Viserys still lives to this day. "Our son will be fine." For the first time he takes a good look at his wife, his eyes falling to the dress she's wearing. It is the same one she's worn when Jon was not yet born, loose and soft. "Lyanna."

She looks down and shakes her head. "This was not how I wanted to tell you." Lyanna looks at his face, part joy and part sorrow. "It ought to have been different."

Nonetheless now he knows. Mindful of Jon and his fitful sleep, Rhaegar takes Lyanna in his arms, quietening her sobs. "It shall be fine, you'll see. Jon is our son, Lyanna. He is a fighter; he won't give up." Because they both need to believe that. The Stranger is not welcome to their son. "You have to be strong too. Just a little more, my love."

In the unthinkable eventuality that they do lose Jon, Rhaegar has to keep Lyanna from falling apart. He eyes the babe in the bed. Gods protect him, and Gods protect all those responsible for his care if the child dies. As soft-spoken and calm as he normally is, Rhaegar does have his own supply of grief and anger that wait to be unleashed. And, again, Gods be merciful if he does get to do that for none will escape the fury. He is the blood of the dragon, fire in his veins, and the flames will raze all.

Both remain by their firstborn's bedside. Lyanna out of motherly love, Rhargar out of concern for both mother and children. He loves his son beyond what words can say, there is no measure to it. Lyanna is the same, she would give anything to see the child open his eyes. Yet she also carries other children within her. Rhaegar finds that convincing her to sleep is a task hard to accomplish. Seldom does Lyanna close her eyes without a fight.

And yet kinder winds do blow. Little Jon is strong just like his father promised. The boy fights this fever with all he has. He cries loud, scaring his mother and worrying his father, but Jon does not leave this world. The Maesters say that he is getting better with each passing day.

"The Prince will live," one says, taking the boy's temperature. "His fever has broken. The great danger has passed." It is a relief, but the wait is still difficult to endure. And the Maesters cannot tell when the babe will open his eyes. "He could wake up on the morrow, or come nightfall, or even in a few days. I cannot be sure, Your Grace."

"At least we know he will wake," Lyanna murmurs when it's just the three of them again. Rhaegar takes his seat next to her without words.


	24. xxiv

It is twins to be born next to the Prince and Princess. Rhaegon and Aeron are so alike that one could not be able to tell them apart were it not for fate's cruel intervention. The boys both have the silver hair of their father and those violet eyes. Yet where Aeron's orbs glow with intense purple, Rhaegon's eyes lack lustre, seemingly opaque in their dull shade of grey-lilac. The Maesters hand Aeron to his mother proclaiming him well and healthy. As for Rhaegon, it takes them some time, but they come to the conclusion that the boy is sightless.

Jon watches the two new boys with curiosity, from his place on Rhaegar's lap. Lyanna stares with worry to her husband. It has not been so long since Jon was ill, scaring them half to death, and now this. Aeron squirms in her hold and Rhaegon sleeps at her side. One of her hands comes to the slumbering babe's head, gently stroking fair, soft hair. She can see the way these people eye her child and she doesn't like it. Lyanna almost snarls at the next man whose eyes fall on Rhaegon.

Seemingly of a mind with her, Rhaegar sends all of these servants out. "He is my son, as much as Jon, as much as Aeron. He will not be made to feel any different, my Lady. I promise you. Rhaegon is a Prince." And that ought to keep quiet the servants. Yet it won't.

"Rhaegon is a Prince for all the good it may do him. Rhaegon is also blind, my Lord." She says both in a solemn voice. "They will talk." If they haven't already begun to anyway. But knowing people as she does, Lyanna is sure their mouths are already running. Her poor son. She cannot protect him from this, short of stuffing wool in his ears.

The oldest of their children joins Lyanna on the bed and Rhaegar picks up Rhaegon. He looks at the boy, not saying anything. Then he touches a finger to the infant's cheek. Aeron is still in Lyanna's arms when his eyes go to her. "I love all my children. I love you."

"And I love you," Lyanna answers. They say the Dothraki kill any child who is not born strong. A weak babe is left out for the dogs to feed on the tender flesh. She is glad they are not Dothraki. Her children will live, Gods be willing. They will grow up to be strong men, even Rhaegon. For Lyanna knows there are many kinds of strength. Rhaegon will not be a knight like his brothers, he will be no warrior, but he is her son, blood of her blood. "And I love my children." She kisses the babe's forehead, then smiles at Jon who has crawled on her legs. Lyanna will be his eyes until other eyes will come for him, she decides, watching Rhaegon. She will find a way for her son to grow up like other children. His brothers, she is sure, will be of help. They are a family.

Aeron gruggles, unintelligible sounds. He isn't crying, but his eyes are fixed on the thick strand of hair coming near him. As any child, he grabs at the hair, small fist wrapping around the strand and pulling down. "He has a sure grip," Rhaegar observes, a smile on his face. It is the look of a man amused.

"Would that he grabbed your hair," the woman complains softly, without any bite to it. "You shan't be so amused then." Lyanna scowls, but does not pull away from her son's hand. He has no real strength to him, just insistence and he'll grow bored soon enough, she reasons. Aeron shows signs of impatience already, he is more like her in temper it seems. There is wolf blood in his veins, juts as there is the Stark face that Jon has. "You have seen the King today."

"There is trouble, my Lady." Rhaegar is no longer watching Rhaegon. He trades the boy for Aeron. "The Martells are growing impatient. They push for the betrothal to be announced formally." He breathes hard, rocking the babe he cradles.

"Our betrothal was known to me when I was a child. It was only made official a little before we were married. Why the hurry?" It is a curious thing for the Martells to push quite so strongly when none of the two is of age. "They are still children."

"Daenerys." Rhaegar gives his wife a meaningful stare. The King is fickle, his mind can change at any given time. Daenerys may very well have to marry her brother to keep the bloodline pure. After all, the King made no promise, just words.

"Is there anything else?" Should the Martells take it into their head to rebel, the realm will suffer. Lyanna knows that war breeds war. It is a vicious thing. "Is there anything to be done?"

Rhaegar leans closer to her, his lips against her ear. "The King grows madder by the hour, my love. He awaits the moment to set those he thinks his enemies on fire. Something has to be done." What he is considering is treason. "I have your support?" His breath is warm against the shell of her ear.

"Always." Because no matter what he might do, he is her husband. She must stand by him, like she would for her own father. "I am your wife, you are my husband." And he shall always have whatever he needs of her.

"I want you to go to Wintefell," Rhaegar says. He steps away from her. "Your brother will be expecting you. I have already sent a raven." At the look on her face, he cocks his head. "He will receive you well, I am sure."

"Why not Dragonstone?" Lyanna asks. "I do not wish to be away from you." Yet she does understand that should things go wrong for him, there will be repercussions. Their children would pay the price, she knows. Lyanna swallows. "Stay with me tonight."

Inclining his head, Rhaegar makes for the door, calling in the Septas and nursemaids. "Take the children to the nursery." Then to the guards he turns, "We are not to be disturbed." With that his orders are carries out, and he is left with Lyanna.

"Come," she invites. Lyanna waits for him to make himself comfortable and climb into bed with her. She sighs when his arms wrap around her. In her bones she can feel that troubled times are coming. They approach fast. And with them comes sorrow and death and all of its friends. "Don't die out there. Live for me and your sons."

In the dark they love, beneath black skies and sparkling stars. For morning will come soon. When light touches the stones, Lyanna will be on her way to Winterfell.


	25. xxv

Months fly by, and Lyanna is a guest in what was once her home. Jon is growing, taller and taller, and solemn, and so much like his uncle that Catelyn remarks upon it as they put the children to sleep. Rhaegon and Aeron do well enough, they cannot walk yet, unlike Jon, but they can certainly wail and get into a lot of scrapes. Robb Stark has the Tully looks and Lyanna brushes his coppery hair with a smile, remarking that the firstborns take their looks from their mothers. Of course when the four of them band together only the Gods can keep them safe.

When Rhaegar comes to see her, Lyanna thinks her heart may burst. His dark armour, with it blood-red dragon of rubies, the silver hair and those eyes she knows so well. The realm is full of unrest, she knows. Her husband has made no move to see the King off the throne, but these are hard times. "Your Grace, Winterfell is yours," Eddard says. Lyanna sees her husband smile and smiles too, Rhaegon is in her arms, Aeron in Catelyn's and Jon holding onto her skirts. "Hopefully the road has not been too rough, Your Grace."

"Lord Stark, Lady Stark," he greets. Rhaegar nods to his hosts and to his wife. He picks Jon up. "My Lady, it is good to see you." He's brought men with him, and they need accommodation. Ned and Cat will be busy with that in any event, so when Rhaegar asks for a moment with his wife, they graciously agree. "I would show you something," he tells her. Then he takes her to a wheelhouse.

"Why have you brought me here?" Lyanna enters as she is bid, but the blood chills in her veins. She sees a woman, a nursemaid by the looks of her, and in her arms a babe. "Rhaegar, I would hear an explanation, if you will give it." The infant, a girl, has dark hair and darker eyes. She looks like a foreign Princess Lyanna has not yet forgotten. Without waiting for a word, she storms out the wheelhouse, because behind her eyes burns the image of Elia Martell.

"Lyanna, stop!" Rhgaegar follows her out, grabbing her arm, forcing her body to remain unmoving. "I had to bring her here. I had to." And even though she trashes against his iron clasp, Rhaegar won't let her go. "Listen to me."

"Don't you dare, Rhaegar Targaryen!" Lyanna growls out. "What could you possibly tell me? What?" Tears sting her eyes, and the taste of ash gathers in her mouth. "To show me this is cruel. I never thought you cruel, but you are your father's son." She's spiteful, maybe, on account of hurt.

They enter the rooms which have been given to her, and Lyanna is brutally pushes into the wall, stone digging into her back and shoulders. "You will listen," Rhaegar hisses, well and truly angered. When Lyanna's hand comes down towards his face he grabs it and slams it to the wall too. "They would have killed her. She's just a babe." Then he gathers her in his arms. "Arthur Dayne is a White Cloak."

"Arthur Dayne?" It all comes to her. Of course, Ser Arthur and Princess Elia. "I thought she was yours." The sob catches in her throat. And she finds it hard to look at him, part anger, part shame. "What do you want from me?"

"I have claimed her." He lets her go then. "The Martells will aid me, so long as I promise them my brother. The Council has agreed to name me Prince Regent. I would bring you with me." So long as no one finds the identity of the bastard's mother.

Yet Lyanna cannot hear anything but the fact that he has claimed her. "You would have me acknowledge her as yours?" Does he want her to raise the child? "What of her mother? Does precious Elia not want her child?" Lyanna has given birth to three sons and she cannot image not having them in sight, knowing them safe, holding them and kissing them goodnight.

He hesitates, and Lyanna gives him a cutting glare. "The birthing left her weak," he says. Rhaegar looks away from his wife. "If word got out of the babe and its parentage, I will be forced to act against a man who is closer to me than my own brother."

"So release him from his vows." Lyanna knows what she sounds like, but she cannot help it. Ser Arthur is a good man, a kind man, who had no business taking such a vow. "All that it takes are a few words. Does anyone even know?"

"Elia told no member of her family who the father was. Naturally, they know the child is not mine, yet they are content enough to let me claim her." And so all hope of Arthur Dayne shouldering the burden he has helped create disappears. "I will not force this upon you, my Lady."

"You already have," she replies morosely. "You've made your decision, and I have to follow." What would it look like for the future King to change his decisions on the whims of a woman? Not to mention that Lyanna is already part of a plot. "Let this be the last time, though, you do something like this to me." She does not have to elaborate. "Have you named her?"

"Rhaenys," he answers instantly. He's given her a Targaryen name, a sign of his claim on the child. Other will be less likely to question her origins, not that they would ask this to Rhaegar's face, or Lyanna's face. Or so he hopes. "Rhaenys shall be her name." His eyes ask her forgiveness even as he bestows that name to the babe in the wheelhouse.

"Rhaenys," Lyanna echoes. She nods her head, almost tiredly, and shakes his hand off of her arm when he does venture to touch her. "I would have a few hours of peace, my Lord." The coldness of her voice and the barrier she raises between them are deliberate. "Mayhap you should visit with your sons while I rest."

The door closes with a loud noise. Lyanna sits on the bed and weeps.


	26. xxvi

Warming up to Rhaenys is a difficult thing from day one. Lyanna does not want to love this child her husband has brought with him, yet when she hears the babe cry she often rocks her to sleep. And even as she battles this affection growing in her heart, trying to pull its roots out, Lyanna knows she will not be able to. After all, Rhaenys is not Rhaegar's seed, no matter his laying claim on her. She won't forgive him this taking of decisions on his own, but she cannot hate the tiny human who is blameless in this.

For some days Rhaegar keeps well away from her as they make for King's Landing. He mounts his steed and rides all day long, only entering when they stop near lakes and other bodies of water to let the horses drink their fill. Lyanna bows respectfully but won't say a word to him. The Prince lets her be, knowing that when her anger abates she will thaw. But they are nearing the capital, and he hasn't been able to kiss her properly, or hold her hand at all during this long journey. It irks him, yet Rhaegar does not force her into anything, though by right he can.

It grows colder and colder and dark when Lyanna finally asks him to the wheelhouse. The children have been sent to their own wheelhouse along with Rhaenys' nursemaid. Rhaegar enters just as she wraps her nightshift around her. He stares at it, his lips not moving, throat suddenly dry. He could simply take what he wants and leave after, bend her over and be done with it. Yet he wishes for her to come to him on her own, forgive him and consent to his touch. What value is there in a forced act?

"You're tired," she observes softly, advancing until she stands in front of him in this monstrous thing of a wheelhouse. Lyanna takes his hand and pulls him along. She reaches for the clasps and buckles holding his armour together, unfastening knots and pulling the black metal away to leave him in his shirt and breeches. This time, when his hand catches her arm, she remains still as a statue, dark eyes on him. Standing on her tiptoes, Lyanna kisses him, close but not quite on the lips. She teases because she can, and he deserves it.

They don't speak of the children, theirs or his; they make no sound besides a sharp breath here and there. Rhaegar lets her lead, shuddering at the ghost touches and barely kisses. He helps her out of the soft linen covering a body he knows like the back of his own hand. And then she climbs atop of him, sitting astride, her thighs to his hips. Lyanna isn't much in the way of a courtesan, she's always been a straight-forwards sort of woman, yet Rhaegar thinks that for all that he's never felt quite like this with any other female. Her minute figure moves constantly, up and down, and she places both his hands on her hips, coming to a halt when he dares to move them. She's not particularly generous, there is still resentment there, but Rhaegar takes what she gives all the same.

After, they are a tangle of limbs, messy and sweaty. He presses numerous kisses to all the spots he can reach without moving too much about. Her skin clings to his, damp to the touch and tasting of salt. Now Lyanna merely closes her eyes when his hands roam the bared expanse of flesh she presents him with. Rhaegar is pleased enough by her acceptance, kissing her fully on the mouth, a slow, sated union of lips. Just as he makes to leave her side, Lyanna presses her hand to his chest firmly. Gray eyes burn into his.

"Stay." She lets the word hang between them; an invitation he can choose to honour or not. Her breath is hot against him when she buries her face in his neck, mumbling words without meaning against his skin. Lyanna is giving him the choice. She would have him if he chooses to remain here.

Dropping back to his place, Rhaegar feels her leg coming to rest on him. Her hand is still on his chest, fingers moving slightly as he settles down. He can feel the heat of her body as it coils around him, and Rhaegar thinks of vines and blue roses and red dragons and gray wolves. "Forever," he murmurs. "I'll stay forever."

A sudden halt makes him aware that they are no longer moving. Lyanna raises her head, pulling the sheets closer to her when Rhaegar throws his clothes on. He nods to her and steps out of the wheelhouse. Lyanna grabs whatever she finds, lacing the cloak around her shoulders and follows. The sight greeting them is shocking.

"Aerys of the House Targaryen, the Second of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, commands that the Prince Rhaegar, his heir, and Princess Lyanna, with all their children, be escorted to King's Landing."

Blood drains from Lyanna's face, and Rhaegar bows his head. This can only mean one thing. Despite all the measures that had been taken, the King has found out about plans made in the dead of the night. And he intends to put a stop to them, after all he has other heirs besides Rhaegar and the children birthed by Lyanna.

Somewhere further down the road a babe starts crying, the wails loud and sharp, cutting through the torch lit night. Rhaegar's hands form fists. He bites his tongue to keep from swearing. They have been betrayed. By whom? Who would have anything to gain by keeping a madman on the throne? It is not even that important, the identity. Yet the Prince promised himself that he would find out and take the head of whoever it is.

"My Lady, let us be on our way. The King awaits." And so, he helps Lyanna back into the wheelhouse, shutting the screens in their wake.

"What now?" she asks, not ignorant of what has transpired.

"Now we wait," he replies, frowning at her.


	27. xxvii

Jaime Lannister though the world to be a song. And now it is all brought down by what he sees everyday, serving a madman. Prince Rhaegar is brought before the King and Aerys is vicious to the man and his family. Princess Lyanna's stare is haunted as she looks about the room, hoping that someone might speak up in defense of her husband. Of course no one does. It is only Rhaegar, his wife, and the members of the Kingsguard.

"You would dare betray your King?" Aerys yells, his eyes glassy, sparkling with madness. "You thought to replace me, eh, boy? You thought you could take the throne from me and lock me in some tower?" Rhaegar offers no answer, for there is no right answer. "Speak! Have you no tongue?"

Silence lingers. Probably annoyed, the King rises from his throne and walks down the steps. Standing in front of the Prince, the King is almost as tall as him. Jaime closes his eyes. He cannot look away, but he does not want to see. It is enough to hear. This man they'd sworn to protect would have been better left somewhere in a ditch to die. Yet he is King and good men lose their lives for and to him. Just as his son is about to right now.

"Do you think silence will protect you?" Not even the Hight Septon would be able to protect him. Rhaegar Targaryen still does not speak. "If you won't talk, maybe your wife will. What say you, my dear good-daughter?" The woman keeps silent too. Fed up with this, Aerys strikes out of the blue. His hand lashes out, knocking into Lyanna's cheek, sending her to the floor. Jaime feels the bile rising in his throat. Rhaegar grabs his father's arm, almost tearing it from its socket.

"She's my wife," the young Prince hisses, pushing his father back. The Kingsguard stands and stares with baited breath. They will not move. After all, the Prince is not attempting at the King's life; they have no reason to step forward in defense of him. "How dare you mistreat her?"

At that Jaime wants to yell out that he's been doing far worse things to the woman he calls wife, the woman whom he shared a mother with. They came from the same womb, yet Aerys is not better than a beast to her. He hears it when he guards the King's door, and sees it when he looks at the Queen.

"I am your King!" He looks over his shoulder. "Seize them," Aerys orders. Despite that no one moves. Lyanna struggles to her feet, her face pale, her body shaking. "This is your fault. You fouled my son's head." He looks like he might strike her again. It is a good thing that the Prince holds him firmly. "Why are you not arresting them?"

"You are my father, and you are my King," Rhaegar says, his stare cold. "The next time you touch the mother of my children, it will be the last time you have hands." The Prince looks to the White Cloaks. "Have the King escorted to his rooms."

Yet Aerys does not want to leave. He calls to the guards, swearing and fighting all the way out. "This is not the end of it, boy! You have provoked the wrath of your King. It shall not go unpunished. Just you wait." His threats fill the halls.

Arthur is about to follow his fellow brothers, motioning for Jaime to come along. Before they can though, the heavy doors fly open. The Golden Cloaks pour in, swords drawn, demanding the King's release. They lunge forward. The White Cloaks disband in that exact moment. Some chose Rhaegar, and other chose life, and some chose the Mad King. The Golden Cloaks come further in, followed by Lannister and Baratheon men. It is clear now who has betrayed.

The young lion sees Lyanna dashing after a fallen sword, and Rhaegar fighting the men who oppose him. The King has retreated into a corner. The madman is close to the door. He isn't even brave enough to see his order carried out. Disgusted, Jaime stalks towards his prey. He garbs the man by the collar of his shirt and pulls him up. The sword in his hand comes to rest on the skin of Aerys' neck. "Stop, or I will cut his throat!" he roars.

Men freeze, all eyes turning on them. Jaime sees his father, and his lips curl disapprovingly. "Release the Prince and his Lady." It seems to be working, for the man holding Rhaegar down step back, and those that have grabbed Lyanna push her to the front. "All of you, get out!" Jaime doesn't really understand why his father is listening. It's not like Tywin Lannister, yet he won't stop to question it now.

One yell from the back alerts them of the newcomers. And so the fighting starts again. It is the Tyrells that have joined, cutting through Lannister, Gold Cloaks and Baratheons without discrimination. Jaime shoves the King away and joins the fray. He sees Arthur Dayne reaching for the Princess. Barristan Selmy has already arrived at Rhaegar's side. It is butchery. Blood stains the marble floors, corpses are scattered along the stones, empty eyes open wide and unseeing. Something hits Jaime in the back of his head and the world goes dark around him.

When he wakes, rough sheets are under and above him. His mind is foggy, his eyes unfocused. Pain attaches itself to him. "You're awake. Good." It is his father's voice speaking. Jaime forces himself to rise.

"Where are we?" he asks. His mouth is dry and his head is pounding. "What happened?" He really does remember little but slaughter all around him.

"We are rotting in a dungeon cell," Tywin growls. "You have spirit; I'll give you that, boy. But what possessed you to put a blade to the madman's throat?"

So they have not won. "I was growing tired of him," Jaime replies. "The Prince would have made a better ruler." Had been given the chance, the young lion thinks. "It should have been him on that throne."

"Your Prince is most likely dead, his corpse rotting already," Tywin says.


	28. xxviii

The chains hang heavy on his wrists. Rhaegar spits out blood but gets up anyway; even knowing he will only be knocked to the ground again. This is what his father understands by teaching him a lesson. No matter how many times the blows rain down upon him, the Prince is more worried about his wife and their children. If the King treats him thus, what must he be doing to his poor Lyanna?

He's not exactly sure how much time has passed when Aerys finally comes down to see him. The King grabs his son's face. "I am not a cruel man. If you repent, I will set you free." Then he smiles, sharp as a blade. "Of course, you will no longer be my heir. But you may take your children, and go wherever you wish outside the Seven Kingdoms. And your wife. That is if there's anything left of her to take."

"What have you done to her?" Fear spears through him; clouding his vision is deep red anger. There are only so many horrors he can imagine before he goes mad. Rage ignites in his veins. "Tell me." The chains rattle when he tries to reach the other man, they hold him back. "What have you done to my wife?"

Aerys grins, wide and cruel. He likes the pain he causes. "Tonight, I'll bring her to you." And he leaves his son in the dark again with only his thoughts.

Rhaegar tries to ward off these wretched visions of Lyanna suffering, but he only manages to conjure them again, making them vivid. He can hear her cries in his ears if he strains, can smell the blood and terror, can see her dress stained with red. Bile catches in his throat. He's heard what is done to a woman who is a prisoner. They will show her no mercy. His eyes sting. Those who betrayed him will be no kinder to her. It is then that he remembers Robert Baratheon was amongst them. The stag wants his she-wolf. He hopes to the Gods that Lyanna is not yet broken in spirit.

A loud screech precedes Lyanna's arrival. Rhaegar has waited and waited and waited until he thought they might never bring her. The guards shove her in, and he can only stare as she falls to the ground again before his eyes. Chained as he is, he cannot offer her help. She wears a simple dress of gray, her hair in a braid. It is so much worse like this. He doesn't even get a brief idea of what's been done to her. They could have done anything and he wouldn't know. She gets up on her hands and knees, crawling closer to him. When she faces him he can see the bruises marring her face and a split lip starting to heal. Her dark orbs have turned obsidian.

"Lyanna," he whispers. His hands reach out to touch her and when they do he feels her going still. She pulls back, eyes wide and frightened."Lyanna, please! It is me, Rhaegar."

"I'm sorry!" she cries. He can feel her trembling fingers touching his hands. "I'm so sorry. What have they done to you?" Lyanna brings his hand to her cheek and he can feel the wetness against his skin. She wraps her arms around him, muffling her cries in his shoulder.

Once more the door opens. Aerys comes in joined by his Queen. Rhaegar's mother looks upon the two of them, her violet eyes full of tears. For the first time, Rhaegar can see that her arms are full of scratch marks, long thin red lines. She takes a step forward. Then another, and another until she stand before him, obscuring the view of the King. "Repent," she tells him, her voice broken and small. She begs him without words. "Repent and end this."

"What say you boy, do you repent?" Aerys drags his wife away, sending her crashing into the wall. He also shoves Lyanna aside, until there in only Rhaegar in his line of sight. "Do you renounce all claim to the Throne? Will leave with the first available ship?"

"I, Rhagaer of House Targaryen, renounce all claim to the Iron Thorne," he says then. If it gets them out of here, he will give up his birthright. "I shall leave along with my family on the first available ship." Will they be sent away to Braavos? Pentos? Tyrosh? Only the Gods know. It doesn't matter so long as they do get away.

Perhaps this has been all that Aerys was waiting for. Rhaegar is released from his chains upon the snap of his father's fingers. "You leave now." Lyanna and he are led out, cloaked. They are given the children they brought forth with them and entrusted to the care of a ship captain who is to take them to one of the Free Cities.

They are given a small cabin, the six of them together. Lyanna holds her children close, even small Rhaenys. Rhaegar would ask her questions but he cannot bear to disturb her now. She looks tired. Perhaps it would be better for her to sleep. "Lyanna, close your eyes. Get some rest."

"When I close my eyes, I get no rest. I see cruelty though, and I see blood and chaos. I get no rest." The questions in his eyes must have shown, for Lyanna lets her head drop. "Would that I could close my eyes."

"Tell me what they did." It serves no purpose, but not knowing tears him apart. He is unable to right these wrongs, but he would know them all the same. "Tell me their names."

"I think they killed Arthur Dayne. One of them grabbed me by the hair. I was sure he would force me on my back and rape me. That didn't happen. Instead I was given to Robert Baratheon." Lyanna swallows what sounds to be a whimper. "The King was there too. He made all sorts of accusations. Then he had his men beat me." Looking into his eyes, she continues. "I started bleeding, heavily. They say I lost a child and that it is punishment enough for me. And they gave me back to you."


	29. xxix

Eddard closes his eyes for one small moment. The letter in his hand crumples. Rickard stands grim-faced near the window. "It is abominable," he manages to get out; the words feel inadequate. Sweet, little Lyanna, accused of treason, exiled along with her husband and children. That a man could do this to his own family is astounding.

They've found Ser Arthur Dayne, formerly of the White Cloaks, so they bring him forth to hear it from him. The silver haired man's lips are a thin line, as if he is considering, choosing his words. "What you hold is a letter. They give you bland words, meaningless words such as traitor, exile, lack of honour." He stops, is about to say more, but the doors open with a howl and in runs Brandon, followed by Benjen.

Rickard hold his hand up. "Continue, Ser." He bids his eldest son to sit, and the younger to follow the same order. "I would have the whole truth of this. Spare me no details."

"I was there, when they brought them in, Rhaegar and his Lady. The King took his rage on his son with cruel words. Then he turned upon his good-daughter. Before anything could be done, he felled her, and perhaps he would have done more had Rhaegar not stepped between them." Violet eyes cloud over. "Then, when we though it was over the Golden Cloaks came, shouting their support for Aerys. Along with them were Lannister and Baratheons."

"The Lannisters I can believe. But Robert?" Ned questions. "He would not hurt Lyanna." Robert is a friend. At one time he even asked for Lyanna's hand in marriage. "Robert Baratheon is not without honour."

"Robert Baratheon did a madman's bidding without questions. I saw it all, tied to wall by chains as I was. They made me watch as they brought Rhaegar's Princess by her hair into the throne room. They paraded her about, and then shoved her into Robert's arms. This man, who is not without honour, lifted her skirts while his companions laughed." Arthur's stare is penetrating, hard and angry and bitter. "He shamed your sister on the orders of a lunatic. Then he watched her stand accused of adultery and treason, and said not one word while the King had her beaten. That is the extent of his honour."

If he was horrified by the brief contents of the letter, Eddard's face becomes ashen now. "And all these man, Lannisters and Baratheon, stood by and watched." A man he thought his friend had betrayed him so.

"Not all of them," Arthur corrects him with a grimace. "Stannis Baratheon spoke against this treatment of your Lady sister; he's rotting in the dungeons now, along with Jaime Lannister who was ready to slit the King's throat when he first convicted his son."

"And Tywin Lannister?" Rickard poses, rising from his chair. "What did the Hand of the King do all this time? He is more than capable of controlling the King."

"Tywin Lannister thought to win favour by revealing Rhaegar's plans to the King; it didn't end well for him. No doubt, it was through Robert that he found out. You see, Robert was one of the few who knew." Rhaegar should not have trusted Robert Baratheon, but fool that he'd been, the Prince thought that promising Robert an alliance with the Royal House would make him cooperate. Arthur Dayne can feel the tension rising. "House Tyrell and House Martell have joined the Prince's cause."

"So shall the North," old Rickard says, his voice pure ice. "All my men will ride south and we will raze King's Landing until there is not even brick upon brick to be found." There is rage in this promise. These are the vows of a father who must live with the knowledge that his daughter, an innocent, suffered at the hands of a man in whose house he sent her himself. "Where is the Prince."

"The King had his shipped to Pentos. It was lucky that the Tyrells bought the captain of the ship. Highgarden has become the refuge of the Prince and Lady Lyanna." It is on the tip of his tongue to tell them about the unborn child, but there is enough fuel already. No doubt Lyanna herself will tell them.

Bradon stand to his full height, muscles cording. "We should ride to King's Landing right now. Let us grind them to powder."

"Foolish boy, we will do no such thing," Rickard berates him. "A war cannot be won by heading in sightlessly. We shall join the Tyrells and Martells, and whatever other forces the Prince has gathered. Then we march upon King's Landing."

Young Benjen pushes himself up. He has said nothing until now. His lips tremble, his eyes grow dark and darker still. "I can't be here, I must go-" he starts, the words stick to the back of his throat. Lyanna practically raised him. And these things he's heard, they make him sick. "I must go to Lyanna."

The Warden of the North nods gravely. "Yes, you leave first with a host of men and Ser Arthur here. Brandon, gather your man. Eddard and I shall call upon the bannermen. The North marches to battle." And the North marches towards vengeance.

Catelyn Tully Stark enters too then. She asks nothing, just announces that the man are prepared to begin the journey whenever Lord Stark should deem it fit. Her eyes stray to her husband, then to Ser Arthur. "Lady Lyanna is my friend. No further harm should come to her."

"Lady Lyanna is well protected, kept away from those who would wish her harm." Rhaegar trusts no one with his wife lately. It is no wonder, not after the throne room, not after Aerys. "Her friends surround her."

"Not all of them," Catelyn answers. "Her truest friend stands before you." Hate swells in her breast when she thinks of what poor Lyanna must have endured.

He can understand, Arthur thinks, he can understand this devotion. It is the same thing he has with Rhaegar, or very close to it anyway. He inclines his head. "My Lady."

Winterfell has taken to the cause of the Prince, and the Realm will bleed, and all shall be repaid.


	30. xxx

His wife wakes with a scream, a howl of pain and mourning. Rhaegar who hasn't really been sleeping takes her in his arms even as she trashes to escape his hold. Lyanna screams and pleads, sobbing loudly. "It is alright, my love," Rhaegar tries to soothe her. "You are safe now." But inside his anger grows by the minute. He looks upon this broken woman and seethes. The bruises are fading and her lip is mending, but her soul still bleeds. And Rhaegar would anything to staunch the flow. Yet he can only hold her trembling body to his and pray; pray that her tears will stop and that she'll come back to him and not glance his way with unseeing eyes.

"They killed my baby," she croaks, her voice a whisper. "They killed our child, those monsters!" Lyanna rips herself from his arms, turning to face him. "Don't show them mercy. Promise me, Rhaegar. No mercy. Promise." Her eyes shine wildly.

"No mercy," he agrees. Of course he will show none, not to those beasts who set upon a woman without defence, who laughed in the face of her misery. "Each and every head will be decorating the walls. They will not escape justice." Robert Baratheon, most of all, will have to suffer. Rhaegar hears Lyanna's cries ringing in his ears. He remembers her face scrunching in horror and pain as she dreams. And he recalls her blank stare every time she wakes from such nightmares.

"Aerys said you would no longer want me after Robert was done with me." She thinks this is a stain upon her honour, that it somehow lessens the bond they share. "He said you would throw away." And other men might have done just that in his place; but he was not other men.

"I will kill Robert Baratheon slowly, slowly, so he may feel his life leaving him." The Prince smoothes his Princess' hair. "And my father will have his punishment too. But Lyanna, know this, you are guilty of nothing. You are my wife, the mother of my children. The day I no longer want you is the day the sun rises in the west and sets in the east." How he wished to take her in his arms and chase away these demons haunting her. "How could I not want you? We've built a life together." Every joy and every sorrow, all the moments and the small fights; all these have made up the foundation of them. They are so deeply entwined that he cannot imagine a life without her.

"May the Gods keep you, Rhaegar. I thought I loved you that day you asked for my favour, and then when we kissed at Harrenhal. And then I thought it was love when I shared your bed the first time. I knew nothing about love."She takes his face in her hands. "You married a maiden with songs in her head." Now she knows that love is not merely sweet songs. "They are gone now, those songs."

Like all living, breathing things, love must be grown. It doesn't simply strike out of the blue, appearing from around the corner. That's infatuation, admiration maybe. But not love. Love is not blind devotion. Love is choice. One can either let themselves fall for somebody, or one may pull back, close themselves off. People will give reasons, signals, words and actions. In the end much of destiny is choice, whether it is acknowledged or not. Rhaegar has made his choice; which is to stand by Lyanna as she stands by him. Only a dishonest man would turn around, and that he is not.

"I married the best kind of woman there is," he replies instead. Oh, she'd been innocent enough when they married. It had been a thrill. And yes, she'd known little about love other than what those songs say, but he'd been much the same. Those buds from the beginning have become fully bloomed and then withered and fell, and still he can't let go of her. "And I recall you never were very fond of those songs."

"No, I wasn't. But I did believe in them, somewhat. I wanted them to be true." The world is different now, much as it always is after life altering incidents. Lyanna snuggles in Rhaegar's shoulder. "Now I believe in only one song."

He doesn't ask which. The only song there is, a soft melody heard by them only, he's known about for sometime now. "Are you certain you would not feel better if I sent you to Wintefell?" She's refused him many times over, yet he wants to be sure. When the army has gathered he will leave to fight, and she will be alone. At least Winterfell would not be a strange place for her.

"I would rather wait for you here." It is much easier. With her at Winmterfell, the only link between them would be a raven. She wants no raven. Lyanna wants Rhaegar, flesh and bones, real and palpable. "I reckon we'll be safe enough, the children and I." He needs to go out there clear-headed, without worry. A worried man is a losing fighter. Rhaegar cannot afford to lose. Not now, not with so much at stake. Not when he's holding so many lives.

Tyrells, Martells and Starks have joined him. Word is that House Arryn will join them too. House Tully has already send ravens stating their support. Of course they would, seeing as Eddard Stark, the future Warden of The North, has wed Catelyn, formerly of House Tully. It is uncertain what the Lannisters will do, seeing as Tywin Lannister is imprisoned, along with his son. Mayhap they will break their allegiance with the Baratheons, thought it won't be easy. Cersei, once a Lannister, is wife to Robert Baratheon, and if rumours are true, about to bring him a child.

The Baratheons have the support of the Iron Islands, for what it counts, and some say Robert has brought mercenaries and sellswords from the Free Cities. What will follow is a long battle, much bloodshed and pain, and the fury of the common people who suffer the most under such circumstances. If only there was a better way to solve this.


	31. xxxi

Robert grimaces at the stench. He gives a disgusted look to the turnkey, and passes the man without a second glance as the door opens. The sword at his side is oddly heavy, though its weight should be nothing compared to his war hammer. The image that greets him is desolating. He's landed in a pit of misery it would seem. His father-in-law sits on the ground, his head rolled back. Jaime Lannister is here too, his face hardly recognisable with blood caked on it. He looks nothing like the brother Cersei claims to be so fond of, and goes on and on about. The lions have been brought to their knees, it would seem.

"Why are you here?" Jaime growls, golden hair darkened by grime and matted. "You've come to gloat? Go ahead, stag." The young man isn't even able to climb to his feet. His voice is almost weak.

Ignoring him, Robert turns towards Tywin and speaks to him. "The King has agreed to set you free. All that he wants in exchange is for you to join your army to his." Those astoundingly blue eyes of his sparkle in the firelight. "I promised my wife I'll obtain freedom for the both of you. That's what I intend to do." He advances towards Tywin, deceptively relaxed in his mannerism.

"And how is that working out for you?" Jaime quips. "I'm sure mad Aerys is only too delighted to let us go," he mocks. After all, it is he who held the blade at the King's neck. "Or are you now capable of taking such decisions? How many women did you have to beat and rape for this? Or did you just help him that once with the Princess?" Robert hits him hard on the head for his efforts, but he just chuckles bitterly.

"Silence!" Tywin rebukes his son then turns to Robert. "And if I don't give him my men? What then?" There is a speculative quality to his stare even as he says the words. "What will the King do then?" The Lannister host numbers many able men; no doubt the King has need of them.

"Your heads will roll, and then they will be displayed on the city walls for all to see." The head of the Baratheons does not try to sweeten the facts. "Do you accept the terms proposed by the King?"

Tywin keeps silent for a few moments. Robert glares with suspicion. Cersei has been quick to assure him that her father would do anything for his heir, and Jaime's position is precarious indeed. That ought to have made the lion tamer. Yet Jaime is no less impertinent than before, and Tywin just as flexible as before. In a way it is to be expected, Robert considers. If one was to listen to the gossip, they would no doubt hear of Aerys Targaryen's supposed infatuation with Joanna Lannister. Mayhap that is the reason for the old man's hesitation. If so, then he is a fool. His wife rots in her grave will he still has years to live.

"Very well, tell the King that my men are his men," Tywin decides finally to the great despair of his son. Robert can tell that Jaime Lannister does not agree at all. "My son comes with me."

"Actually, I would rather not," Jaime says from his place on the floor. "When I desire the company of madmen and their pets, I'll be sure to seek you out. Until then, perhaps you would be so kind as to not disturb me." Green eyes flash dangerously as Robert approaches.

"Would you rather die?" Robert questions. "Guards, lead Tywin Lannister and his heir out of here." He turns around and stalks into the corridor as the men do his bidding, carrying the Lannisters out of the cell. "You will be bathed and fed, and then the king wishes to see you," he tells Tywin.

"Jaime?" Tywin asks. The old man still has a sharp tongue about him, and an even sharper mind. One his fangs have sunken into the prey, he does not let go. A lion through and through, Robert considers with a mocking half-smile.

"He will be an honoured guest." Just to ensue the cooperation of his father, is what remains unsaid. Robert lingers amongst them no longer. He has other things, better things to do than answer questions for them. There's a war to be fought. He signals for Tywin to be taken away.

"A real man would die of shame in your place," Jaime yells to Robert. "A man with honour would not have stood by as a woman was being beaten to within an inch of her life. Then again, an honourable man would not have acted as a beast towards a woman he is supposed to respect. You are no knight!"

"You dare talk to me about honour? You who held the King hostage, with a sword threatening to cut his throat, lecture me on honour?" He laughs, as if that is the most amusing thing he's heard. "That woman you respect so much is a traitor to her King by allegiance with her husband. I have more honour than you, who would murder your rightful ruler for a schemer."

"I spit on your honour," Jaime manages through gritted teeth. "What you did to Lady Lyanna will not be forgotten. She is of the North, and the North remembers. Were I free of these shackles, I would kill you myself."

"Why, Lannister, I confess I am surprised. I had no idea you felt so deeply for her." Tall and dark, Robert looks a shade, a malevolent spirit out here. "I did nothing that did not need doing. She was supposed to have been mine."

Damn Rhaegar for ruining it all at Harrenhal. Robert knows he's been so close to having her. Lyanna had danced with him and he'd made her laugh. She would have been perfect for a wife. Now he has Cersei, all fair, slim and tall, when what he wants the she-wolf. But he's paid the dragon back. And he's paid Lyanna back too for thinking herself too good for him. She can be the ruined Princess of a traitorous Prince for all he cares.


	32. xxxii

Benjen stomps across the stairs, cape billowing after him. He pushes the door open even as Arthur Dayne rounds the corner with a worried look upon his face. The pup gives the knight a fierce, challenging look and hurries into Lyanna's chambers. His sister scrambles to her feet, fear on her face. Benjen realises only too late that such an approach is not the best to have opted for. He is rooted to this very spot, staring at her as she breathes hard and tries to do something, anything.

"My Lady, my Lord," Arthur calls their attention from the doorframe, momentarily stealing Benjen's eyes from his sister's form. Lyanna's eyes dart between the two of them, but her terror doesn't seem to be abating any. "Perhaps you ought to step back," Arthur advises from somewhere being him.

"Of course," Benjen replies, taking one big step back, and getting closer to the door, as Lyanna sits herself on the bed, worrying her fingers. "I did not mean to scare you." He just wants to see her, embrace her, and kill every man who dared harm her. He knows he shouldn't feel offended, that she can't help her reactions, but he does anyway. Lyanna should not live in terror. Not his dear sister.

"My brother," Lyanna manages to get out. "Ser Arthur, you may leave us. I would speak with my brother alone. I do not want anyone to enter unless I call for them." She gives Benjen a pained smile after the knight leaves them on their own; she is still seated on the edge of the bed. Lyanna does not seem to want to leave her current position. She bids him to choose one of the chairs about. "Where are father, Brandon and Eddard, did they not come?"

"They are gathering the bannermen," Benjen informs her. This woman with grief in her eyes is not the sister he remembers. And he cannot bring himself to ask, so all he does is stare at her, quite insistently and without masking his emotions too well. At least she looks healthy enough in body. He's still a pup for all the rage burning in him and demanding that he avenge the wrongs done to his sister.

"Come here," she says, patting a spot next to her. "I just needed a moment to gather myself; you've startled me," Lyanna offers at the uncertain look on his face. She repeats the same gesture, and smiles more fully when he does take the spot. "Have you seen the children?"

At first Benjen wants to tell her that he can see them later. Right now he wants to see her. Yet even as the thought forms in his mind, he knows it would be wrong. Instinctively he senses that Lyanna would be more comfortable with an open door and her children here. So Benjen shakes his head. "I imagine they are much grown. How about bringing them here so that I may reacquaint myself with them?"

"Splendid idea." Lyanna springs to her feet, traces of a happier version of herself, and calls to one of her handmaidens, stationed outside, to bring her the children. "I swear they grow so fast, they surprise me."

It takes no longer than a few moments for Lyanna's little ones to run in. Jon is the tallest, already stead on his feet. Aeron follows his older brother around, clutching his shirt tightly. A handmaid carries Rhaegon, whose unseeing eyes stare blankly ahead. And then, in comes a child of whose existence Benjen knows nothing of. Young Rhaenys is held by a nursemaid.

Jon climbs on the bed, as Aegon pulls on Benjen's knee. On any other day, Benjen would have picked the midget up and spun him around, but now his eyes have fallen on the unknown child. "And who is this?" he asks, looking her over. A small babe, Rhaenys doesn't look anything like Lyanna or Rhaegar. When his sister says nothing, he turns towards her, picking Aeron up in the process. "Lyanna?"

"Rhaegar named her Rhaenys," she whispers taking the child in her arms. Rhaegon is also placed on the bed, his brother, Jon, helping him find Lyanna with his hands. "He brought her from Dorne. Rhaenys has not yet been weaned, you see, so we still have need of the nursemaid."

"He brought you a bastard?" Disbelief colours his shout. Benjen eyes the child with sudden displeasure. "You should have told us. You should have said something." Rhaegon covers his ears and Aeron struggles in Benjen's lap. "How could you allow him to have her here, with your children? A bastard, Gods!" He grabs her arm gently.

"No!" Jon screams, his high-pitched voice bouncing off the walls. "Let go!" He crawls over Lyanna lap and slaps at Benjen's hand. "Let go, let go!"

The siblings glance down at him. Benjen's brows are furrowed, but he smiles kindly. "It seems there is a brave prince here to protect you, my Lady." He releases her arm. "I spoke too harshly. My apologies."

"No need, brother." She too smiles at her firstborn. "Rhaegar and I have talked about this already. Rhaenys will stay with me and her brothers. He didn't force me to take her, you know? I chose to."

Or so she believes, Benjen thinks. Lyanna loves her husband, he knows; clearly that love would allow him to get away with many things. But to bring his sister a bastard, proof of his faithlessness? And then to convince her to raise it as her own? Benjen won't accept it. However for his sister's benefit, he nods his head and turns his attention back on Aeron and Jon. "And your Rhaegon, is he improving?" Rhaegon is the poor, blind child who hands onto Lyanna's sleeve. Benjen strokes the boy's head, but can't hold the sightless stare. Those eyes of his are most disturbing. It is uncharitable to think so.

"Rhaegon is a healthy boy." Lyanna frowns. She puts one arm around the child. "He is happy enough to play with his siblings all day long."

"No doubt," Benjen agrees. What else can he do when his sister shows ever so slightly that his question does not please her? Yet how can he ask anything else? Her child is blind, and though that should not stop her from loving him, it should not cloud her judgement, allowing her to think him healthy. In his own way the boy is a cripple. Life won't be kind to him just because his mother loves him. He won't be able to hold onto her forever. "I did not mean to imply otherwise."

Satisfied, Lyanna nods to him. "Well, what news of Wintefell? You've told me nothing?" She pesters him with questions which he patiently answers. It is good to be able to hear her and see her alive before his eyes.


	33. xxxiii

Cersei is as beautiful as he remembers her to be. His twin sister glows, even when her face is sullen, her skin too pale and her eyes rimmed with dark circles. As well he knows, Jaime doesn't try to sweeten this for her, she'll only snap at him worse when he does. It is much better to have her like this, stern and slightly irritated. Cersei won't question him, won't listen to him so long as he refuses to obey her directives. And this once he cannot do as she tells him. He won't consider it even.

He'd snuck out of his room and into hers many times before on a simple look, defying all laws and rules their parents have tries so hard to instil into them. They came in this world together, but life separated them the moment Tywin promised her to Robert Baratheon. Jaime would have killed the man simply because he'd marry his dear Cersei. The reasons for wishing him dead have morphed. It's no longer so much about Cersei, as it is about Robert himself. Before Robert could have been any man, now it is only he that Jaime wants to spill the blood of. The Stag won't live when winter storms upon them.

"Are you listening to me, Jaime?" Cersei berates him. Her eyes sparkle like jewels, her body rounded with child. "If you only swear to never pick up a weapon again, the King is willing to allow you to walk away. You could even become Lord of Casterly Rock again!" She watches him expectantly.

Empty promises, Jaime knows. All this is meaningless to him. "He might as well chop my right hand off in that case." What is he without a sword in hand? A useless waste of space, that's what. Like his sister was born to become some lord's wife, Jaime was born to fight. He knows nothing else, for he has shunned the though of it. "I refuse to be his puppet." The King may have him for a prisoner but not his cooperation. That he won't give. Not even sweet Cersei can convince him otherwise.

"Jaime, please," his sister begs. "Don't throw your life away. I need you." They've been so long together that neither quite knows what to do without the other, not when they are so close in this moment. Cersei takes his face between her hands. "Is it that important to you to thwart the King's plans? I fought Robert for this, so don't waste my good-will."

"You call this good-will?" He wants to live, damn it all. He does wants to grow old with her by his side, but just living is not his only concern. Jaime thinks about the how as well. He could bend knee, he could swear never to never use a weapon again, and then he would live out the rest of his days a slave in all but name. They would pull his strings and he'd be forced to perform in accordance to their manoeuvring. Jaime wants no part of that. "You had best beg your husband to end my life, for if I ever get out of here he won't be safe, no matter where he hides."

Petulance twists Cersei's mouth. "I hear what you did. You should have just let them kill each other, you fool. What business was it of yours to protect the Prince and his when you were sworn to the King?"

She doesn't understand and she never will. "You never had to make such choices," he growls at her. "It's all very easy for the Lady of Storm's End. Go back to your scum of a husband. I would tell you to gather your things and flee, but clearly you don't have enough good sense in you to listen."

The slap she delivers leaves his cheek stinging. "Don't presume to know anything." For the first time, Jaime cannot hold Cersei's gaze. "You left me to him. You abandoned me to join the Kinsguard, and now you abandon again me for your precious illusions of honour."

"I never abandoned you," Jaime protests. At least to him it never looked like he has. "I did this for us. We are not Targaryens sister, and I did not want to live the rest of my life with any woman other than you." How could he, when he loved Cersei so? "I did the only thing that I could do."

"That's simply moving, brother dear. I might cry," Cersei quips, her voice flat, devoid of feelings. "But I confess I cannot properly appreciate the gesture. I wasn't given such a choice. They told me to marry, and I had to do it. I couldn't pick my way out honourably like you did. I have to live with Robert whether I like it or not." There is a bitter quality to what she says, like this pains her. And maybe it does.

"Do you know what he did?" Because she sure seems well informed to him to be scolding him like she does. "I prefer the illusions of honour to the reality of being a beast."

"Why is it always about the wolf bitch?" Cersei paces the length of the floor, her face frowning."What is it about Lyanna Stark that has all men drawn to her like moths to a flame? Tell me, Jaime; does it upset you that you couldn't save her, or that you can't have her?"

Revulsion mars his features even as the words leave his sister's mouth. "I wish upon no woman what they did to her. I respect her." And he does. It's not love or anything close to it. The only woman he loves stands before him. Lyanna Stark is a woman in whom he sees hope, something he never witnessed in the Queen, and not in Cersei, not for a long time now. That they would tarnish it seems inconceivable. Yet it happened before his very eyes. They broke her down and humiliated her.

"Fine," Cersei answers, her skirts swishing as she turns to leave. "Keep your respect then. See if it can keep you alive." With that she disappears out the door, leaving the young lion with his thoughts.

Far from disturbed by it, Jaime closes his eyes. There must be a way out of these rooms. Preferably a way that does not require that he signs over his life to the King and to Robert. The Lion of Lannister will not be brought down so easily. Let the Stag and its swords try to manipulate the Dragon. They will burn, and the clever Lion will live on. Jaime wonders if his father has thought about this. Knowing Tywin, the son does not doubt it. Tywin is shrewd; he will not go down without putting a monstrous fight and ruining his enemy in the process.


	34. xxxiv

Rhaegar finds that sleep eludes him. He leans back into the chair, eyed wearily the documents strewn on his table. He thinks of his earlier meeting with Benjen Stark, and the accusation thrown his way. There is nothing to be done, of course, but the boy looked at him with cold disdain. "If she sheds one more tear on account of your actions, if she suffers one more hurt, I will make sure you never grace her with your presence again." The sarcasm and the threat still ring in his ears. Rhaegar sighs, placing his head into his hands, fingers threading through silver hair.

Warm small hands touch his wrists, making him look up. Lyanna reaches out over the desk, an unsure smile on her lips. "I waited, but you didn't come," she explains, and although her words are not cross, Rhaegar cannot help but feel he has failed her somehow.

With all these preparations, he has been kept busy. Lyanna he visits when he can, and then the children are with them. But it is also true that every night he stops by her rooms to sit with her until sleep claims her. More than that he dares not do, for both her benefit and his. "Forgive me, my love. I did not realise the lateness of the hour."

Lyanna walks around the piece of furniture until she stands right in front of him. "I can't sleep," she confesses. Their fingers have entwined in what is an automatic gesture. Yet they have done no more than this. It's a small mercy, Rhaegar thinks. And then it isn't. Lyanna slides in his lap, curling against him. "Hold me, please." She twists and turns until their faces are barely apart. "Rhaegar, I need you." Her whole body shakes.

"We don't have to," he whispers against her lips, tortured. But he lets her mouth touch his, her arms wrap around his shoulders. "Lyanna." He moves his hands tentatively to her waist, touching her midsection softly. Rhaegar rises bringing her with him, cradling his wife's body in his arms. Placing her on the bed, he sees the fear trickling into her eyes; they mist over. "Close your eyes; sleep. I'll be right here with you."

"No! I want you." she speaks loudly, gripping his sleeve to stop him from moving away. "I mean what I said." So despite the way her frame trembles, Lyanna shows that determination he loves so much. "You won't hurt me." Her mind must know it better than her body, for her lips speak and her whole being quivers. "I won't live the rest of my days in fear," she tells him heatedly.

And she truly cannot live in fear, neither can he, Rhaegar realises. He can stop her now, trying to protect her, and he would do her more harm. If Lyanna wishes to try, he cannot deny her. He has to trust that his wife can do this.

Like an old habit, their bodies arrange themselves with slow movements. This is love. And this is comfort. And it is so many other things that Rhaegar won't even try to put a name to all of them. The lines are not clear, for when this many emotions meet one gets lightheaded. It feels odd when a moment of hesitation appears, but she welcomes him like before, and not quite the same. They are not them from before, and that counts as well.

The flame is not all consuming, burning everything away to leave only ash and dust. Instead the fire is an unhurried devourer, persistent and all the more powerful for it. After it fades behind are left half-murmurs and quiet declarations, and two people alone in the darkness that protects with its dark veils. Rhaegar holds Lyanna after, joyful and worried at the same time. His wife doesn't move, simply seems to be waiting for something.

Then, quite surprisingly, she relaxes in his embrace. It's almost as if a heavy load has been lifted from her shoulders. And so the Prince feels his own heart calming down. Thoughts of war have fled in the face of this. When it is only them, his world can be contained in a single closed space, and Rhaegar cannot help but marvel at it. How is it that Benjen though he would willingly hurt Lyanna? Chuckling softly, Rhaegar lets the memory fly.

"What is it?" Lyanna asks, with a small smile of her own. She breathes in and out, steadily, unconcerned of his eyes taking her in. She's almost like her old self.

"Your brother made me some promises," Rhaegar tells her, amusement still in his voice. Perhaps he shouldn't find it all so very droll, but Benjen doesn't know half the truth of what he shares with Lyanna.

"I told him not to interfere," Lyanna complains, although she has no real anger inside of her. Benjen, it bears repeating, doesn't know what he's saying, simply for the fact that he does not have the truth to work with. "Don't mind him."

"He only wants to protect you," he reminds Lyanna. "Men are like this, you know. We grow quite impulsive when those we care for are in any kind of danger."

"I've never seen you so much as frown," Lyanna counters, all playfully. Which of course, it not true. Rhaegar has frowned often enough when a situation displeased him, but he does have moments when his mask is wrenched so tightly on that even Lyanna cannot guess what he is thinking of. She's seen it more and more, with the war on their doorsteps.

"I've had years of practice." The court is not a lovely place despite what the nobles say. Yes, it glitters and there is elegance. But behind all these, underneath stone, marble and rotten wood, the decay is so easy to see. One has only to peels away a few layers, and the truth springs to the surface, like a deep, dark secret that ought not to have seen the day of light. Rhaegar just hopes that years of practice will be enough to secure him a permanent victory, that he might never have to bury secrets down again. It leaves a bitter taste in his mouth; victory and defeat are so close to one another, bound together. There is only a hair's breadth separating them; one small fraction to come on top or face hell.

Not deluding himself into thinking the conquest will be easily won, Rhaegar falls into his own melancholy. If he does manage to defeat his opponents the realm will need soothing. Already the cracks and tears leak blood. The weather grows colder, and the days shorter. Or maybe this is how he perceives them all, for not so many moon-turns ago daylight seemed to go on forever.

"Stop allowing worries to weigh you down, my Prince."


	35. xxxv

Arthur walks the halls aimlessly, his thoughts of a faraway memory of clear skies and welcoming arms. He should have gone to the practice yard, or even juts to the stables, yet he finds that neither option holds appeal. It is one of those days when regret, bitter and biting, is upon him. How strange that a single moment may define a man's entire life. Strange and sad at the same time, for so many opportunities dwindle and cease to exist. Their place is taken by other choices, then others and others. It is a never-ending sea of chances seized and lost.

It is long ago that, as a boy, he made an oath to a man, a King, he knew nothing of. Chivalry and songs, they disappear in the face of life. Greatness and renown are but steam, a light fog to hide humiliation. And not only that. They call him a knight, the fools. Arthur has heard them comparing him to the heroes of songs enough times. They are all fools. He is no more and no less than blatantly human. What a word it is! The human being is both grand and miserable, doomed to failure, decay and demise. Strong, yet never strong enough, strong till the end. No, the truth is he is no hero.

Rhaegar is a hero, he thinks. Or rather, Rhaegar has the makings of a hero. They will write songs about him and his Queen. Arthur is but a shadow of their shadow, a ghost never fully present. It's been like this all his life. The only time, ever, that he felt different was in the arms of a woman who is not his and can never be. The Prince found his moon is Lady Lyanna, she is the governing celestial body in the sky of his existence; Arthur found the sun in Elia Martell, hiding amongst the desert dunes. And for a time basked in her glow. Yet it is not enough to sustain him through the winter.

Elia with her beautiful eyes and soft voice and frail femininity, Elia who he should have left well alone, is the same Elia his mind won't stop conjuring images of. She is the same Elia his dreams are filled with, the one who shared his bed and the one he held. The one he still wants to hold, might he add. Arthur knows they look at him and see a knight of songs. They look upon his face and have no idea that he would break all hi vows again, plunge the realm in chaos even, to have one more hour with Elia. But Elia is far, far away and he has only the memory of her smile and the fading taste of her kiss.

A jarring noise breaks him out of his thought. Turning towards the source of the sound, he notes with some alarm, that he stands before the nursery. It might be that the little ones are in danger. With that particular worry in mind, the knight opens the door and strides in.

There in the middle of the floor a pot has fallen, smashes to pieces, leaking water all over. By the sizzle of it, it is well heated, boiling even. Lying there also is little Rhaegon. By no merit of his own does Arthur come upon this conclusion, for Jon is already calling the boy's name, while Aeron stumbles in his hurry to reach his twin. A dark haired child cries on the sofa. This is a real mess.

Little Rhaegon climbs to his feet with no more than a small wince, and the barest help from Arthur. Holding the child's arm up, he inspects the limb, fearful of what he might find. Alas, there is nothing to be seen, not even the colouring of skin. Rhaegon repeats a few times that he is fine, and even the bastard child Rhaegar brought with him stills. For the briefest of moments, Arthur looks over the boy's head to the girl on the sofa. Something about her tugs at his heart. He cannot quite place the feelings she stirs in his chest. This is the first time he's been able really see her. She is so beautiful.

"What's going on here?" Lyanna's voice comes from behind him. Glancing over his shoulder, Arthur does not overlook the frown on her face or her furrowed brows. She is distressed.

"Rhaegon fell," Aeron replies hurriedly, looking away at the stern stare his mother sends him. His face flushed, colouring rather like Rhaegon's skin should have. However he does not add anymore, and Lyanna does look like she knows what they've been up to. Rhaegon vows that he is well.

Lyanna's lips form a straight, grim line. A Septa comes behind her and is plainly instructed to clear away the remnants of the broken pot and not leave the children's side. "Ser Arthur, if you would be so kind," she beckons him. Lyanna motions for him to follow her. Her peace of mind seems to have abandoned her, for she walks ahead nervously, sharply cutting a corner.

"My Lady," Arthur ventures. It cannot sit well with her, he imagines, that he's seen the bastard child. It is a slight, he knows. Or that's the way it is perceived in the Seven Kingdoms. He's heard about this daughter of Rhaegar's, yet has never seen her until this point. She might even ask him to keep quiet, which he was planning to do anyway. "Pray, have no worry."

Turning towards him, the she-wolf adopts a startled mien. "Thank you for helping my son. I am grateful." Her eyes grow cold, but somehow not unkind, just resolute. "But I would ask that you don't enter that room again." Lyanna bites her lip, as if she's not quite sure if she should say anymore or stop.

"As you say, my Lady," Arthur answers, bowing. He is confused, and more than a little displeased. What reason could she have to act thus to him. And the motives fill his head, each dark than the one before. "As you say, I shall not enter the room again."

"I am not seeking to chastise you, ser Arthur." Lyanna touches his arm gently. "But for now, it is my wish that you keep away from the nursery." Her eyes regard him strangely, probing, searching for he knows not what. "Once again, thank you. Now, I know you'll excuse me, for I must check upon those children of mine."She smiles, patting his shoulder and then setting off.

Dark hair and a baby's face is what Arthur sees when he closes his eyes. Such an impact the infant has made upon him. She looks familiar. Arthur sits on the steps and lowers his head into his hands. The child reminds him of Elia and what will never be.


	36. xxxvi

Highgarden and its surroundings are swarmed with soldiers. Eddard would marvel at it was he not more concerned about Lyanna, the war, his own wife and child and many more. Brandon, as is his custom is already swearing up and down that he will slay the Mad King and the Stag he'd rip the throat of. And as always Eddard keep hi silence, allowing himself to be lost in Brandon's shadow. It is a habit hard to break. Brandon was Lord of Winterfell, Eddard received it by chance, by his brother's own folly. But before he can lose himself in such thought, Eddard remembers Lyanna.

Or rather he sees his sister at the gate, joined by Benjen and her oldest son, Jon. Their father is the first to pull her in his arms. It is a brief show of affection, as Rickard has never been comfortable with showing his feelings, not even to his children. Brandon, by contrast, sweeps his sister off her feet. Taller than Eddard, he has Lyanna hovering off the ground for a few moments. Finally when he reaches her Lyanna gives him an odd smile. It is a sort of mix between her gladness and her sadness. Eddard understand it well.

"I wish the circumstances had been different," she tells him, as Rickard nods approvingly towards Jon and Brandon smiles wolfishly at the child. Jon still exerts a firm hold on Lyanna's hand.

"I've heard you have more than one, sister? Where are the others?" Brandon questions looking about. "Don't tell me the dragons have taken to hiding from the wolves," he teased without malice.

Something like a shadows passes over Lyanna face. The short show of anguish is not missed by Eddard. Yet Lyanna dons a mask of cheer and responds to her oldest brother. "Jon had been assigned to my personal guard. My other boys are guarding the sleeping chambers."

"In other words they slumber!" booms Rickard, releasing a deep, guttural laugh. "Them lads are wee yet, Brandon. At their age you were hardly out yourself." Gray eyes, somewhat warmed, regard Lyanna then. "I'd like to see them too, those other grandsons of mine."

Benjen's mien suddenly turns sullen. Eddard levels a questioning glance to his bother, but the young man gently shakes his head. Lyanna seems to catch on to the silent exchange and glares at Benjen. "Jon, do bring your brothers here, would you?" She pushes the boy forward and a Septa, as if conjured, takes him away. "They were supposed to be four," Lyanna finally manages to say in a quiet voice.

A wave of red assaults Brandon's face at the news, and Eddard feel the way his brother tenses. Lyanna doesn't need to clarify. The heir to Winterfell thinks of his own son. He thinks of Catelyn, and lets it wash over him, the thought of someone harming them. Rhaegar must be a very strong man, Eddard decides, for otherwise he would have gone insane. Just considering the notion makes him feel sick to his stomach. And Lyanna, poor Lyanna, what must she have felt? That Eddard can't, and won't, imagine.

"With my own hands, I've sent you there," Rickard murmurs. All of a sudden he looks older, many years beyond his age. "I cannot ask for your forgiveness, but allow me to avenge this wrong they've done you, daughter."

"There is nothing to forgive," Lyanna replies with a gentleness oddly reminiscent of their mother. "You've done me no wrong, father. My husband is a good man. To him it was that you sent me and that I do not regret. Whatever else happened was out of your hands."

But it hurts no less, Eddard reflects bitterly. Of course Rickard could have not known the Mad King would do what he'd done to his own kin, but the man blamed himself all the same. Yet knowing, on a rational level that he could have done nothing, and the fact that he did not prevent this tragedy does not lessen the pain. With those considerations, Eddard closes his eyes briefly, and thinks that while killing is not something he likes participating in, in this war it is the just thing to do.

The chatter of small children, with their high voices, brings him back. He looks around Brandon to see his oldest nephew leading a younger boy with silver hair and a third one with the same looks at the second following. It becomes clear to him that the one being led cannot see, for he does not turn to look at them as the others, simply stopping when his brother does.

Lyanna looks at them with obvious pride. "As you've already met Jon, I shall introduce my other sons to you now. This is Rhaegon," she tells them, placing her hand affectionately atop the silver tresses of the boy. His purple-gay eyes stare straight ahead. "And this is Aeron." Her other hand is already on the child's head by the time she finishes speaking.

Aeron and Rhaegon look the very same, like two drops of water. Eddard supposed the no one would have been able to tell them apart were it not for Rhaegon's defect. They have taken their appearance from their father, unlike Jon. All of Lyanna's children hold a special sort of charm, and with her standing right behind them, Eddard cannot help but smile. They are a beautiful family.

Rickard clears his throat and greets the boys. None dares comment on Rhaegon's lack of sight. Staring at him, Eddard feels something shifting inside of him. It is not easy to explain, but there is the trace of something grater in those vacant eyes. Almost like despite this infirmity, he does actually see. Not like most people, but he does, or so Eddard finds himself thinking when the boy's eyes stray to Rickard.

Bidding their sister a good day, the sons of Rickard leave for council, behind them staying the father who still has thinks to speak of with his daughter. Eddard finds that his good-brother too seems to have aged formidably. The boy his sister has married is replaced by a man. Ultimately he will become a King. For some reason he does not doubt this man. Aerys might be his father, but the son is nothing like him and that brings joy to Eddard.

They speak of plans, sieges and ambushes. They talk of numbers and rations and victory. They need more than words to win. Eddard looks the man who will lead them into battle and thinks that, should he die, he will have died knowing he'd fought besides worthy men. It is no little thing to be sure of a man's valour, and even rarer is finding a man of such qualities. Even so, Eddard knows that he's found such a man, and he is the better for it.


	37. xxxvii

Rhaella Targaryen is daughter of a King and she is the sister-wife of another. All her life she's been Princess or Queen, people have known her as such, treated her thus and so she had moulded herself to their expectations. She stands tall, undaunted by cruel words and unkind whispers. Her head is held high despite the marks that cover her arms and the pain in her chest. And for all this she is locked in her chambers with her small children and dark thoughts. Aerys hates that she is not yet broken, a puppet in his hands, she knows. For that reason she stubbornly persists.

Her fingers touch the stone walls, cold and harsh underneath her fingertips. The dark colour brings her sorrow, just as Aerys' visits bring her grief. He comes to her at night to torture her with news of her son, and lies and lies and lies until Rhaella refuses to acknowledge him anymore. Then he becomes violent, and the Queen prays her children, sleeping in a close by chamber hear nothing. She prays they dream of lemon cakes and sweet summer fruits. Her dreams are filled with smoke and fire and death; the dragons come to life, bright eyes burning with matchless fire.

"Your spawn has gathered an army in hopes of defeating me," her husband tells her, his face distorted in the candlelight. "I think I shall give you a present soon. After all, you have pleased me well enough."

Wary, Rhaella looks his way. "I thank you, Your Grace, but I deserve no such gifts." She tries so very hard to dissuade him. As the smile blooms on his features she feels the blood freezing in her veins. The Queen cannot even open her mouth to ask what he wants to give to her.

"While Rhaegar is a traitor, I know that as his mother, soft-hearted as you are, you shan't forsake him. It is admirable." His hand touches hers in what is to be a comforting gesture. "Once I have finished with him I shall return him to your arms." And he says it like he's being magnanimous.

All the blood drains from Rhaella's face. "He is our son, my King. Our first-born." She would fall to her knees if not for his grip on her shoulders. "I am your sister. If ever you loved me, Your Grace, spare him." It's useless to beg mercy from Aerys, but she tries all the same for the child born out of her. Rhaegar is the child she loves best of her three. Viserys is too much like Aerys, and Daenerys is born to a woman full of regrets. "Please, brother."

"It is too late, my Queen," he mocks her softly. "I've tried, do you not remember? You, yourself, asked him to stop this foolishness." Allowing her to fall, Aerys steps back. "I have business to attend to."

Finally alone, Rhaella allows the tears to fall. "Monster," she whispers, chocking on the word, the sob catching in her throat. Her nerves feel raw, her heart torn. If she were to look outside she would see the moon shining silver like her Rhaegar's hair. And the sky would be the inky colour of a past lover's eyes. Rhaella supposes it matters little now that she no longer recalls the exact shape of his face or the sound of his voice.

In her youth, not long before her marriage to Aerys, she loved a knight. He was a hero of songs, or so she thought. Ser Bonifer Hasty had made her heart beat like a wild thing. The union with her brother was forced upon her, and Rhaella had accepted with a bowed head. However she would not give her brother the privilege of being her first. That she'd given to Bonifer, with his magnificent dark hair and stormy blue eyes. He'd been tall and handsome, every maiden's dream. And gallant, she remembers; Ser Hasty had crowned her Queen of Love and Beauty. And she gave herself to him before falling into Aerys' clutches.

How she'd loved him. Rhaella still mourns for the lost love. At first, when Aerys had not been the insane man he is now, she thought she might find contentment with him. Especially as Rhaegar had come to them fairly fast. A household full of children is what Rhaella had dreams of those days. But after that first success they'd tried in vain to produce another child. The rebellion followed and Aerys fell into his madness, and Viserys was born. Daenerys came when she'd not been expecting.

One of those crazy thought that has kept occurring to her over the years bother her tonight too. Rhaegar has always been more like her. As much as Viserys is his father, Rhaegar takes after her. And sometimes, when the lights dim, she wonders if her eyes deceive her or if she's gone as mad as her husband when she swears she can sees a ghost of Bonifer in him. Over and over again she compares dates in her mind, but she can never be sure. However, Rhaegar is a Targaryen, this she knows to be true. "That monster will not touch my son," she promises herself. "He won't touch any of my children."

These promises shrivel and crack even as she utters them. But Rhaella is determined. She will find a way to save her children from this creature of the dark that her husband has become. It is such a pity that Aerys has degenerated into this. Not so long ago they were both children bathed in the sun, brother and sister with their life in front of them. Things could have been so different. Happiness had been so close, and now it is just a memory, dust; long dead and buried. It is gone.

Queen that she is, Rhaella commands them to bring her fresh fruit. "Apples," she specifies. They bring her many more fruits besides, but sure enough the tray also has apples on it, and a peeling knife too. The cold metal slides inside the sleeve of her dress, disappearing underneath folds of silk. And the Queen plots, silent as a shadow.

Night gives way to day, and the sky bleeds with the sun's rising. The scent of violence lingers into the sheets, and Rhaella does not sleep at all. Her eyes refuse to close. She lets her thought consume her, the feel of steel in her hand giving her unknown strength. Somehow she is surer of herself, ready to face the world. And when the time comes it will she to save her brother. They would return to once was; two children in the sun, happy and free. If anyone can do that then it is her. She is Aerys' sister, it is her duty. And Rhaella is nothing if not mindful of her duty.


	38. xxxviii

Dust flies high in the sky and the sun beats down on the departing men. Lyanna hugs herself tightly and tries to keep from shivering. The previous night she had a dream. Snow and fire again. Shaking her head the would be Queen allows silence to wash over her. All her man have left, the wolves and the dragon. She’s been left with her children behind. Lyanna fought against it but even she can see the prudence in this decision. They cannot fight and worry about her at the same time. In Highgarden she’s well cared for, given a living in accordance with her status and out of harm’s way. Those are important things.

Good men will die, Lyanna knows. Good men will perish and amongst them may very well be her father or her brothers or Rhaegar. What will she do if they bring back his bones? And not even that should the gods be cruel. Her gods hold no power here, so she finds herself praying in the Sept when she can. May her supplications be heard and answered. If not, Lyanna cannot bear to think about that. Not now.

Alerie Tyrell steps with the room and bows with a murmur of, “Your Grace,” passing her lips. They have declared Lyanna their Queen, this people who have no reason to trust in her skills as such. “You should not let yourself think of the worst of it, Your Grace.” Lady Tyrell casts a knowing look to her. “No good it will do, I tell you.” She leads Lyanna away from the window. They seat at the small circular table.

“I’ve seen enough blood shed to last me a lifetime, and still the gods deem it necessary for more to wet the ground. I cannot understand this world we live in,” Lyanna confesses. Oh, she knows well enough that war cannot be avoided, and violence is ever present in their life, behind heavy curtains.

“And no doubt you are anxious for that husband of yours,” Alerie guesses. “Young wives usually are. There is no helping that.” And no stopping death if it comes, rings silently through the room. “Men are creatures bred for such things. They have the physical power and the necessary temperament for it. But we have our own strengths, as I’m sure you’ve come to know. Mind that you don’t forget it. There is not only one light to shine in your life, Your Grace.” The older woman’s lips curl in something that might be a smile. But as Alerie does not smile fully, it is hard to say.

Strength she has aplenty, the she-wolf thinks. Were she weak, she would have been torn apart by now. “Lady Tyrell, I am very grateful for your words.” There is understanding between them, hanging there. Older and wiser, the Lady of Highgarden knows the fear the younger woman feels and responds to it as only a female could. “It is good for my soul to her such things.” She gives no false hope and no empty words, and Lyanna can’t ask for more than this.

The sound of hooves beating against the tender earth can no longer be heard. Alerie sighs, “I too stand to lose much should we fail, my lady. My eldest is fighting alongside his father.” Only a mother can understand the look in the woman’s eyes when she says that. Willas Tyrell is just a boy, a child with hopeful eyes and dreams of glory. He is the sort that war breaks apart, for what glory can be found on a death field? Surely none that he would care for, only an illusory thing of dubious valour he’ll get.

Jon and Rhaegon and Aeron are babies. Lyanna can still hold them to her chest and not worry about sending them beyond the safety of the high walls. Willas though a boy is old enough according to law to take up arms. And that is just what the boy has done. “I shall pray for him, as I do for the rest of them.”

Bend grass and crimson stained planes play behind Lyanna’s eyes after Lady Tyrell departs. The sound of metal clashing against metal rings in her ears, along with roars of pain and war cries. Nameless soldiers fall to the ground, devoid of life, and Lyanna feels her stomach churning. If they die, they cannot protect those dear to her. It’s somewhat selfish to wish for their well-being only to save her own, but Lyanna is past the point of caring. The most important thing is seeing Rhaegar again.

Of course he had given her his words that only death will stop him from returning to her side, but she knows that many other obstacles may raise. He could be wounded, he could be held captive. Death is final, she would have to accept it, but the others would only serve to torment her further. Hope dangled before her, only to be snatched away. Yet she will endure as she’s always done and place her faith in the gods, old and new. Because Lyanna, the Queen cannot afford to be anything but strong.

Stepping to another room, Lyanna sits in a chair and watches the children play. Aeron hold Rhaenys to her feet, and Jon makes a howling sound, explaining to his brother what wolves are. Maergery Tyrell nods along with her son’s words, a spark in her dark eyes.

One of the handmaids hands Lyanna a cup of tea. The sweet flavour lingers on her tongue along with the taste of fruit and roses. The Tyrells do so loves those thorny flowers, and Lyanna remembers that she’s had a crown of them not so long ago. Hers had been blue like her frozen lands, these are full of colour. Winter roses would have wilted in this heat. Lyanna is glad there are none here. She drinks the tea, down to the last drop, till there is nothing in the cup but air.

Clear skies allow the sun’s light to cover everything in a golden sheen. These are the hard days, Lyanna considers, there will be better ones to come. She’s sure of that. Her children will grow in a realm at peace. The thought brings her a measure of comfort, for surely peace is not that far from her grasp. She can almost feel it. Let the gods not be cruel and end this war swiftly. One way or another, their fates are sealed. All these children of summer, let them not know inter yet. If only she can protect them a little longer. Her little dragons can’t breathe fire just yet. They are too young to learn, just like countless others, toothless wolves and roses with no thorns. Yes, too young by far.

“Do take care, Aeron,” Lyanna tells her son whose eyes hold a mischievous gleam.


	39. xxxix

The sound of flesh and bones tearing apart assaults Rhaegar’s ears. Blood spring forth, staining the steel of his sword and the snowy pelt of his steed. He drives the weapon into the next opponent, cutting his head clean off his shoulders. Around him screams swirls mixed with imprecations and pleas. ‘Tis the sound of death. A low, keening wail of unspeakable sorrow. The sky chokes on its tears, dark and windy. The rain falls upon them all, washing the blood deep into the earth. Another one bites the dust. There’s a sea of corpses already, gathered on the drenched, muddy ground.

Pushing his horse all the more, breaking through the enemy line. He looks for the Stag of house Baratheon in the fray. Robert ought to have been here, unless of course someone other than him has put an end to his miserable life. The thought is both relieving and infuriating. Robert is his to kill, for Lyanna and his murdered child. His heels dig into the charger’s flanks and the beast leaps deeper into the carnage. Rhaegar brings his sword down onto an enemy’s head, letting it cut through the skull. Then another and another, he kills whichever foe stands in his path.

A great horned knight can be seen in the distance charging towards him at astounding speed. His horned helm marks him for a Baratheon, and the hammer allows Rhaegar to know for sure it is Robert coming. Blood lust fills him, and he races to meet his adversary. The waters of the Trident run crimson. The horse’s hooves splash the liquid everywhere. Rhaegar readies his sword, its blade gleaming in the low light. It screams for an offering, to taste the life-blood of the enemy and let out the soul within him. Rhaegar bids his time, standing his ground.

With a cry, the Stag brings his own horse into the water, that war hammer in his hand flying out to Rhaegar. The Dragon veers out of the way, his sword coming to Robert’s side. Unfortunately the steel of his armour is well wrought, his sword not getting through it. Again, Robert swings the hammer. This time, however, he manages to knock Rhaegar off his mount. The Dragon falls into the shallow waters, his shoulder speared by unrelenting pain.

Robert jumps off his steed and raises the hammer high. Rhaegar forces himself back on his feet, barely able to avoid the blow on time. “You are as poor a fighter as you are a husband to Lyanna,” the man taunts. “You had no business taking her for wife if you cannot even defend her.”

“Robert Baratheon,” Rhaegar spits the name out as if it were poison, “it is you who never had any claim on Lyanna.” He thrusts his sword as he says the words. It catches in a niche of Robert’s armour and he pushes down. “She was mine long before you could lift that hammer.” He’d been a child when they promised her to him. And she, she’d been little more than a babe. The sharp edge cuts though skin and muscles, and a roar of pain leaves the Stag. Rhaegar pulls the sword out.

The hammer makes for him again, his leg taking the brunt of it. Rhaegar suspects that Robert aimed higher yet his strength is waning on account of his wound. The armour, black as night, bends under the weight of Robert’s weapon and the bone snaps rending open his flesh, slashing through. Falling to his knees the Dragon’s vision fails him for a few moments. It is enough time for his opponent to heave the weapon high.

Lyanna’s wish was for him to show no mercy. He’d promised her heads on spikes. Something swells within him, a surge of power, its origin unknown. Perhaps it is desperation, or mayhap the gods’ favour. Rhaegar rips himself from pain’s grasp with a yell, enough to have his sword cleave the man’s hand off. The hammer falls along with the severed limb. Rhaegar follows.

Water fills his helm, blocking any air. It seems he won’t be able to keep his promise to Lyanna. Nor would he see her face again. What hurts more, he wonders? The pain in his leg, or the agony of never holding his wife again? The years will wash over her and he won’t be there to see. And his boys; he won’t teach them to wield a sword or a bow. He would have liked that. They will have to grow without a father. If the war is won, Jon will take the throne. Else his sweet children and his beloved Lyanna will burn. Aerys won’t let them live. They must win the war.

Someone hauls him out of the water. His leg throbs inside the steel covering. Gaze unfocused, he hopes to the gods that it is a friend. A familiar voice calls his name. Is it Arthur? At one point he hadn’t been very far behind him. The possibility is there. He wants to ask this person, whoever they are, to take a message to the Starks. They are not to stop even if he dies. They have to win, with or without him.

They lift him off the ground and a scream is torn from his throat. The wound burns like nothing he’s ever encountered. His shoulder, his leg, his whole body; everything hurts. And he doesn’t think he can take it. Violet eyes rolls in the back of his head. He is sick with the pain, barely able to breathe. Bile rises in his throat and he hears curses from around him.

Thankfully he is turned on his side. At least he won’t die choking. There are worst ways to go, true; but not many. Rheagar heaves onto the wet grass, blind and bereft of any sense. His whole body trembles violently, as if something is trying to burst through him. Maybe this is what it feels like when one’s soul departs; this helplessness and bitter agony and the loud buzzing of death in their ears. This song is not as masterful as the ballads he’s learned to play on his harp and it brings no joy; but for all that he cannot ignore its call. This illusory hope he clings to is starting to dissolve along with whatever force still holds him alive. He can feel those cold fingers wrap around him, a veil of darkness. Bony hands drag him down, down, down under, until he knows not himself, nor anything else.

“He needs a maester,” Arthur says when Eddard Stark, helped by his brother Brandon, makes to move Rhaegar again.

“It’s a wonder he’s still alive,” Brandon adds. “Look at him.”

Eddard’s eyes shy away from the sight. “Robert Baratheon is a dangerous foe.” And Robert Baratheon is bound in chains. Why does victory leave a bitter taste in his mouth?                


	40. xl

A somewhat large hand shakes Lyanna awake. The she-wolf lets out a startled cry. For a few moments worry swells in her breast. She is disoriented and sleepy and not at all ready to face anything disastrous. “What has happened?” she asks the handmaid standing at her bed side. The girl’s face is bone-white and her eyes are wide and frightened. “Go on, tell me.” Why is it that people think she cannot handle what they might say?

“Your Grace, forgive me,” the other woman stammers. “I’m afraid ‘tis the Prince. Rhaegon, my Lady, he won’t stop weeping. We’ve tried everything.” Her eyes look away for a second. “The Septa thought it’d be good for him to bring you.”

Standing to her feet, Lyanna heaves a sigh. She’d thought something awful had happened. Yet it’s just a nightmare. “Very well, I’ll go see the children now. You may retreat back to bed without worry; I’ll have no need of you.” She goes to the door and opens it slowly.

Inside the other room, the Septa is rocking Rhaegon gently. The boy’s sightless eyes are filled with tears and his whole body shakes with the effort of keeping the sobs at bay. Her poor child. Lyanna sees Jon and Aeron on the bed. They are huddled close together, as if to keep warm. But it’s not cold. In fact Lyanna thinks she just might fait because of the heat.

Signalling to be given the boy, Lyanna dismisses the Septa. The poor woman must have tried and tried to calm him down. As quiet as he is, Rhaegon has her stubbornness. Come to think of it, all her children are stubborn in their own way. “What happened, my love? Did you have a frightful dream?” She pushes back his damp hair as he muffles his cries into her shoulder. “There, now. Everything’s fine. See? We’re here with you, Jon, Aeron and I.” Still the tears won’t stop. “Do you want to tell me what you dreamed of?”

“He saw father,” Jon says from his place on the bed. Rhaegon nods against her shoulder, and Aeron merely shudders. “That’s what he told us when we asked him.” Jon throws his brother a hard look.

“He was hurt,” Rhaegon whispers, as if saying those words out loud will make them true. “There was blood everywhere and dead people.” Soothing him doesn’t seem to work, not when he wants her to hear whatever it is his vision revealed. “I saw him; he was in pain.” His voice breaks after those words.

“Father is fine,” Lyanna tries to convince her sons. As futile as the task seems, she hopes they will take her word for it. All of them are too small to worry about such things. “He will come back soon, and you’ll I’m right, my dears.” He has to be fine. Otherwise, surely, they would have send words. They would have let her know. Rhaenys fusses in her small bed. She doesn’t like being left out. “It was only a bad dream, Rhaegon.”

“It wasn’t!” he exclaims. Wiggling in her hold, the blind twin is surprisingly forceful. “I was flying over the field when I saw father. Uncle Brandon and Uncle Ned were there too. They were talking, but I couldn’t hear what they were saying. Mother, I know what I saw.”

Shaking her head, Lyanna sits herself down on the bed. Her son speaks of flying as if they do exactly that everyday. Such is the talk of small children, she has learned. They can fly and win wars with wooden swords. Aeron hurriedly places himself to her side. Jon stays where he is, gray eyes sparkling in the semi-darkness. Lyanna puts Rhaegon next to his older brother and takes Rhaenys into her arms. “I know you miss him, children. So do I. And when someone loved is gone and we think very, very much about them, we sometimes dream of them too. And from time to time, those dreams are not pleasant. But you needn’t worry. Your father will return to us as sure as the rivers flow into the sea.”

Rhaegon purses his lips. His face shows that he disagrees with what she’s saying. “Why won’t you believe me? I’m telling the truth.” He must really believe what he is saying if he’s this adamant.   

“I know you would never lie to me,” Lyanna tells the boy, stroking his head. “I know that none of you would tell me an untruth. But a dream is just that. There’s no need to think it might be something else.” Her children are not gifted with greensight, after all. “Do you want me to stay with you tonight?”  

“Yes, do stay,” Aeron pleads, his small arms going around her waist. Lyanna suspects that Rhaegon’s dream frightened them all. “There now, settle back and close your eyes. I’ll be here when you wake up.” They follow her instructions and Lyanna smiles to the moon hanging in the sky. “Don’t go,” Aerons demands one last time.

“Never,” she promises. “As long as I can I’ll stay with you.” She looks over them as they fall prey to slumber. Silently she begs the gods to give them good dreams. They are only children; they deserve no pain. If someone must have nightmares than Lyanna would gladly take them upon herself. If her children may sleep undisturbed then she will be more than happy.

Thinking back on Rhageon’s words the she-wolf becomes aware that while no raven has come with bad news, nor has she received good news either. This lack of knowledge bothers her more than she’s willing to admit. Rhaegar could have bothered himself to write her a few lines. She’s not asking for much, just to know that’s alive and well. If he cannot, then any of her brother would suffice. Eddard could do it. Gods, even Benjen would ne able to carry out such an easy task, though his writing is unintelligible.

“Don’t think about it anymore,” Lyanna orders herself. Ravens get lost and ravens get shot down. What are a few more days of waiting? She’ll find out soon enough what has happened. Her father, he brothers, her husband; they will all return and regale her with as many stories as she will wish to hear. Her children will have Rhaegar back, and Rhaegon would see that he needs not fear dreams anymore than he does the wind. If only this war would end. Lyanna slips out of the bed and walks to the window. Sleep has left her. Most likely she’ll have no more of it.

“Rhaegar, Rhaegar, why did you have to go?” She knows well enough the answer, yet she wishes it could have been different. But it isn’t and she must take care of herself and those little ones until he returns.                


	41. xli

They pour milk of the poppy down his throat even as he protests. “No more of that vile stuff,” Rhaegar growls at the maester. His leg throbs, a thousand knifes cutting through it. He spies the crude bindings rendered a deep red colour by blood and filth. Finally when he can take no more, the man turns his head away. Milk of the poppy makes his sick and dulls his senses too little for him not to feel pain anymore. He wants to ride his charger and not be stuck in a tent all day long. Alas, he cannot walk. Rhaegar supposed it will be long before he will be able to.

The bandages are moved away to reveal puckered, bright flesh. It is a wound not yet healed and whenever Rhaegar happens to make a sudden movement the thin crust breaks, blood oozing out. Although to be fair this day the wound looks a little more mended than before. The bright colour has dulled to a deeper shade of red.

“You should count yourself lucky you didn’t lose that leg, boy,” Rickard Stark tells him. The look in the older man’s eyes shows respect and incredulity. “Better yet, thank the gods you did not lose your life.” His good-father may be a hard man, but he is not without a soul.  And clearly he holds Rhaegar in some regard.

Facing Robert Baratheon without any of his trusted men by his side is a mistake Rhaegar has learned from. He nods towards Rickard, and then turns to the master. “How long before I am able to ride again?” Enough is enough, he will not be cooped up forever.  Wide-eyed the master throws a stare to Rickard. The Warden of the North shakes his head. Rhaegar’s eyebrow arches. What are they not telling him?

“Your Grace,” the old man addresses him by his formal title, “forgive the lateness, yet I have to inform you of some facts. I dared not do this before, considering the condition you found yourself in.” For many days he’s been unconscious, and if not, too intoxicated to be able of anything resembling coherence. “The leg you will not lose. Yet nor will it ever function as it did before.” Seeming to consider his words, the maester bows his head solemnly. “It will take much time and a lot of hard work, and even then, my King, you shan’t be able to walk properly unless aided somehow.”

A look of bewilderment crosses Rhaegar’s features. He cannot seem to completely grasp what he’s being told. “You may leave,” he says after fresh bandages have been wrapped around the wound. This time his leg is fixed in a cast of sorts.

“You should not let yourself be discouraged,” Rickard comments, his face a mask to the world. Stormy eyes, so much like Lyanna’s, and yet so very different, are trained on him. “Choose wisely.”

Choose what, he wonders. What is there left? “Lord Stark, have you written to your daughter?” Does Lyanna know her husband is a cripple? Rhaegar leans back, a shadow falling over his face.

“Not yet,” Rickard replies. Of course he hasn’t, after all he could have reported little to her. Better to tell her either that he lives or that he died. “Shall I send word from Your Grace as well? Or have a raven readied?”

“No, there is no need, Lord Stark. I wish to be left alone for now.”  Rhaegar thinks of Robert Baratheon tied up in a cage. He remembers the insults he’d shouted at him at the Trident. Had Robert been right? Anger fills him at the thought. He wants to spring to his feet and see the face of his opponent now. But he can’t, and that irks him more than it should. This triumph leaves him empty and full of rage at the same time.

“Wallowing in self-pity shall help you none.” The Wolf of Winterfell still hasn’t left. He watches his daughter’s husband with a cool stare. “You’d best start making plans, for even as we move slowly, we are nearing King’s Landing.”

Closer and closer, it is a matter of days before they reach the capital. “You have your plans, Lord Stark. If it happens that I die, then crown my son and let Lyanna be Queen Regent with yourself as Hand and those you trust in the council.” And for the life of him he cannot decide if he wants to live or not. Wouldn’t it be easier dying, than living like this?        

“Are you planning to die, boy?” Rickard growls out, with a faint trace of sarcasm. “Is that it? You’re giving up and you want others to take care of the problems you leave unsolved. I have to say, this quite differs from what my Lyanna told me of you.” Is he mocking him, Rhaegar wonders.

Whatever else he would say, the message is clear. If he deserts Lyanna, the Starks will desert him. “Lord Stark! I may be unable to stand on my own two feet at the moment, but I am still your King. I will not be disrespected.” Failing Lyanna is the last thing he wants to do, but Rhaegar sometimes fears she’s made herself an image of him that surpasses reality by much. He can do little but strive to reach that vision of hers.

“Good for you, Your Grace.” He sits down of a chair. “Know that if you give them the chance, people will tear you apart.” There is something undeniably wise in his words, and Rhaegar inclines his head. “You are King now, don’t forget. And act like it, or else give it up. If you appear weak, they will think you so.”

“Why do you care if I live or die?” the Dragon feels compelled to ask. Lord Stark could very well see his grandson on the throne. Is he not a means to an end? “You daughter will be Queen either way.”

“And yet she would prefer to be your Queen.” The man is almost amused as he says that. “We Starks were made for the cold of the North. You have me until the battle is finished. After that I return to the frozen halls of my home.”

But not Lyanna, she remains with him. Although once a Stark, she is one no longer. Time and again she’s birthed dragons, Princes of the ruling House. She is to be his Queen. “Now that I think better of it, do have a raven readied for me.” He shall write to her. His wife deserves to her the good and the bad from him.  

No doubt, Lyanna awaits news. And if indeed Lord Stark hasn’t written to her she must be worried. She always worries, he recalls. Rhaegar orders ink and parchment to be brought to him and sets about writing his letter. 


	42. xlii

King’s Landing is an easy prey. Especially because when Rhaegar’s army approaches swords and dropped and shields fall to the ground. Eddard is shown, once more, that people only serve as long as it is convenient. Few are those who stay through the troubled times with those they’ve sworn to defend. Disgust fills him.

Tywin Lannister is a cunning man, possessing a sharp wit and pride to measure up to his cleverness. He thinks Rhaegar will be inclined to show mercy because he opened the gates. And mayhap there will be some, but not quite in the form the head of House Lannister expected. For now Eddard leads his men in. The thundering of hooves follows their passing and the Direwolf waves in the wind.

No resistance is opposed, strange enough, as mailed men fill the king’s hall. Even stranger The Mad King is nowhere to be seen. “What is the meaning of this, Lord Lannister? Where have you taken Aerys Targaryen?”

“He requested that he be taken to his wife’s chambers, so that is where he is,” Tywin replies sharply. Eddard can see that the man likes not one bit the way he is bring treated.

“Lead the way.” The Quiet Wolf urges him on. At his side, Ser Dayne narrows his eyes. Again, Eddard thinks that this is all too easy. “What if Lannister leads them to their deaths. He shares a look with Arthur and they nod to one another. Ice and Dawn are ready to taste blood should there be need.

Before them loom the dark doors of the Queen’s chambers. Two guards stand at the door, they bow to Eddard and his entourage, and watch with anxiety. He bids them to open the doors, almost stepping inside when he is stopped by Arthur Dayne.

”Allow me to go first,” the knight requests giving him a meaningful look. So he does. Arthur Dayne passes Lord Tywin and goes over the threshold, inside the chamber. Dawn’s hilt glints in the light, a promise to those who think to attack him, are there any present. Stillness grips them all in the following moments. A pin could be dropped in the middle of the hall and the sound would ring all through the keep. They all wait with bated breath. “Lord Stark, I think you should see this,” Arthur calls from within the room, thus releasing them from their temporary silence.

Blood pounding in his skull, Eddard rushes in after Arthur. Shock hits him hard and fast at the sight before him. “Guards!” he roars as he jumps to help ser Dayne who is holding the Queen up. Rhaella Targaryen may already be dead, hanging as she is by her neck, yet if he doesn’t al least try to save her, he would not be able to forgive himself. “Cut the rope!”The order is carried out hastily, the woman’s body slumping in the arms of him and Dayne. “Summon the Maester,” Eddard tells one of the men closest to him. “Make haste.” White faced, the Queen lies there, her eyes closed. What is he to say to Rhaegar? Is there a way to explain this?

Turning his head slightly, his eyes land on the bed. Of course, in his hurry to preserve whatever life may have still been inside the Queen, he neglected to look around the room more. There on sheets once immaculate as snow, is Rhaella’s husband. His throats is slit, even with the pillow covering his face Eddard can still see the cut. He glances towards the Queen. He’d never thought a woman capable of such deed, especially not towards her own brother. But the Gods only know what she’s suffered at the man’s hands.

“Cover the body,” Arthur instructs, when Eddard’s words get stuck in his throat. “And take away the knife.” How ironic. Ser Jaime Lannister has held a sword to Aerys’ throat and the man escaped unscathed; his wife threatens him with a peeling knife, and thus he finds his end. “The King will want to know of this, my Lord.”

“Indeed,” Eddard agreed, stepping aside for the Maester to examine Rhaella. The man shakes his head, and Eddard knows there is no change at all. “I task you, ser Dayne, with informing the King about the current state of things.” He steps closer to the knight. “Make sure that his shock will bring no harm to his person.”

“We did everything we could, my Lord; the rest is up to the Gods.” Arthur nods solemnly. “I shall make haste and bring to my King the news.” Eddard is to hold the keep until Rhaegar sets foot inside. After that, what will happen will happen.

“Dead she is, my Lord,” Pycell tells him. He eyes the Queen on the floor, shying from the sight of the covered corpse. “She’s been gone for a few hours at least.” The older man sighs, as if tired. “What a pity it is, my Lord, what a pity.”

Say the people what they will, but Eddard looks at the cold body on the floor and dread washes over him. What could have driven her to take her own life? Did she not know that her son was coming? Did she not think of her other children? “Where are Prince Viserys and his sister, young Daenerys?”

“They have been put in their own chambers,” Tywin Lannister offers. “If you so wish, you shall see them at once.” At the very least, Lord Lannister is no fool to harm the little ones. He may yet escape with his life, Eddard considers.

“They are not to enter their mother’s chambers. Have them brought to the yard where they may greet their the King when he arrives.” Children should not be exposed to such images, least of all small ones like Queen Rhaella’s. What good would it do? They must already be very scared. “Not a word about this is to reach them. If it does, I shall know who to hold accountable.”

News travelled fast, too fast at times. This particular piece of information was best left unknown through the halls of the castle until a solution may be found.

As a last though, Eddard cannot help but wonder about Catelyn and his son. He is glad they are back at Winterfell, protected by the frozen walls, far from the horrors of the South. A Stark belongs in the North, and once he may, Eddard will return to his place. He’s done his duty by Lyanna and by his good-brother. Rhaegar shall rule with Lyanna by his side, and Eddard shall look after his family together with Catelyn. And maybe, just maybe he will be able to forget ghostly faces and bloodstained sheets and hanging women and slit throats. Likely not as soon as he would want to, but all the same it would do just fine.  


	43. xliii

Lyanna allows Arthur to help her off her horse with a surprised look in her eyes. “Ser Dayne, I trust I find you well.” Is Rhaegar pained by his leg so much that he couldn’t come? Torches light the path and her children are being carried in by the handmaids and the Septa that accompanies them.

“Well indeed, Your Grace. I was instructed to bring you to the King once you arrived.” Arthur offers her his arm and together they ascend endless stairs. “Has your journey been a hard one?”

“Merely a long one,” Lyanna replies. “I have heard some disturbing whispers on the road here. Is it true what they say of the late Queen? Has she really killed her husband?” It comes easier to her if she does not say brother.  Rhaella Targaryen hadn’t been the most stable of persons, yet Lyanna does not remember being treated unkindly by the woman. Quite the opposite, she was almost maternal.  

“I should think the King would want to tell you this himself,” the knight counters softly. Again there is a sadness about him that makes Lyanna uncomfortable; she’s seen it a thousand times before. This secret Rhaegar has bid her hold is no less difficult to hide now than it was before.

No more questions as asked for the duration of them climbing the narrow stairs. Lyanna has her thoughts on other thinks and Arthur Dayne, is no doubt, occupied with is own problems. There is something familiar about the place, in a way there never was before, a sense of belonging, now that she walks these halls as Queen. The walls, with their cold stones, are almost welcoming. There is no fear rattling her bones now, not when she knows herself to be safe and so close to her Rhaegar.

Great door open at a nod of her head. Lyanna bids ser Dayne a good night, and makes for what she’s told are Rhaegar’s chambers. Anxious as a maiden on her wedding night, Lyanna find she cannot quite stop her thoughts from becoming muddled in her mind. Will he want to see her? Will her husband be the same man who departed Highgarden? There are so many unanswered questions whirling in her head. Lyanna wonders at the fact that she doesn’t have a headache yet. Gathering her courage she pushes gently against the doors knowing that it is more than enough for them to open.

The first thing she sees is Rhaegar is a chair. Her breath catches in her throat; he looks the sane and then he doesn’t. This is definitely not the man who left her side all those months ago. He looks somewhat older, the whisper of a beard on his chin, his face even more serious than before. Lyanna remembers that she thought Jon resembled Ned, yet she can see it clearly now that he resembles his father. From his place on the chair, Rhaegar turns to look at her. Their eyes meet in the dim light.

“You’ve come,” he says. Her husband sounds tired; his eyes show sighs of exhaustion as does the gauntness of his face. Rhaegar extends a hand towards her, not rising. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

Rushing to his side, Lyanna embraces his tightly. She takes his image in, noting all the subtle changes. Then, at last, she looks down to his injured leg. His letter had been brief. “How is the leg? Does it pain you?”

He shakes his head. “The leg be damned.” Rhaegar lifts her head. “I have missed you.” His lips capture hers in a long kiss. She barely dares to sit herself on his good leg, even as he insistently pulls her.

Were the kiss form from passion Lyanna would have been able to tell. “Rhaegar,” she pulls herself away gently. “Talk to me, my love. Tell me what happened.” The stories ring in her ears.

“She killed him,” he tells her. “Then she hanged herself. They showed me the corpses.” After that Rhaegar buries his head in her shoulder and breaths deeply, mayhap trying to calm himself. They were his parents. No matter their faults, those people gave him life.

Brushing his hair gently, Lyanna tries to offer him comfort. And yet she doesn’t know what to say to him. Instead she holds him in her arms. “It will pass, husband, it’ll all pass.” She has to believe it will; otherwise, they are all lost.

“My father escaped justice,” Rhaegar whispers in her hair. “I should have moved faster.” The anger and bitterness creep into his voice like poison.

“Gods show retribution as they deem fit,” she responds. “We do the best we can, Rhaegar.” Aerys is dead; there is hardly any reason for them to be discussing the Mad King now that he has burned away. “I’ve missed you also.”

“How are the children?” he asked suddenly. “Have they grown much in these months I haven’t seen them.” It’s been almost a year, after all, and children do grow so very fast.

“Don’t doubt it for a moment,” Lyanna laughs. “I swear that Jon is already a heads taller than he was when you left. The twin gets in a surprising amount of scrapes, and gods be good, even Rhaenys is following their example.” And speaking of Rhaenys always brings her thoughts to Arthur Dayne. “Is it not yet time to tell him, Rhaegar? She is his daughter.”

“Soon, Lyanna, soon. I promise you.” These matters have never been easy to handle. After such a long time, how is he to tell Arthur about the child. “I fear the consequences it may bring. He has been a good friend to me for many years.”

“Mayhap he’ll be angry at first. But, without doubt he’ll understand why you did what you did.” Rising from her place, Lyanna fills a cup for herself. “Perhaps it would help if you brought Elia here.” Arthur may be more inclined to listen then to the reasons and the consideration behind Rhaegar’s decision.

What will be will be, Lyanna thinks as she passes the cup in his hands. She watches him drink with a small smile on her face. It’s been a long time since she’s been able to sit with him like this. “I fear that no decision will be made tonight. Perhaps my husband would consider joining me in the bed,” she invites. Violet eyes spring to her face. Lyanna gives an amused little chuckle.

Helping Rhaegar along, they make it to the bed with relative ease. He needs her to take his mind off these things that have happened so very fast. Brushing her lips to his, Lyanna lets herself get lost in his touch and hopes that he does the same.

Fire cracks in the hearth, eating away at the logs. Flames devour every inch of wood, giving a warm glow.


	44. xliv

Elia stands before Rhaegar and his Queen. The boy she’s seen in Dorn many moon turns ago, too many in fact, she’s lost count of them, is now a man fully grown. Lyanna oh House Stark she’s never met before, but she sees kindness in her eyes and so doesn’t feel any sort of fear. They are the people who have been raising her Rhaenys. Her sweet, perfect girl. Elia would be soulless if she didn’t appreciate the sacrifice they have made for her. She knows what it is to claim a bastard in their culture; she knows that Rhaegar’s couldn’t have been comfortable with it. But she did it all the same, and her child lives and the war is finally over.

“I cannot thank you enough,” she says, bowing gently. Yet she is anxious, she wants to see her daughter, to hold her and hear her voice. Lyanna must have noticed for she steps closer to her, and puts a hand on her shoulder.

“We have been thinking this over and over, my husband and I,” she begins. There is a small break, a pause in which Lyanna turns to look at Rhaegar. “Would you not allow Rhaenys’ father to know of her?” There is something hopeful in those gray eyes.

Arthur, Elia muses, should know. It is by him that she fell heavy, of course he should know. But Arthur is a knight in the Kingsguard. “What purpose would it serve, my Lady. He is beyond my reach.” Mayhap it would be best for him not to know. Elia doesn’t want to be responsible for his pain. Could he stand by knowing she was raising his child in Dorne, knowing that he would never see the girl’s face, not watch her grow? “It would be cruel.”

“It would be just,” Rhaegar states. His violet eyes, darker than Arthur’s rest on her for a few moment. “In any event, I have been planning to release those of the Kingsgurad who wish it. In particular Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Jaime Lannister.”

He would do this more for her benefit than theirs, Elia knows. “You are truly gracious,” she tells him. “Yet I believe we should ask Ser Dayne himself what he thinks of this. I cannot make such decisions in his place.”

Rhaenys arrives before her father, though Rhaegar send for them at the same time. She is much grown, no longer that small lump of flesh with a scrunched red face. The girl has her mother’s hair, dark, darker even than the she-wolf’s and her mother’s eyes too. Though Elia could swear she sees purple too in there. It might be a trick of the light. Her skin though is a shade paler than her mother’s. By no means is it white however, it holds to a golden hue. Elia barely waits for her to be brought in and for the Septa to leave before she takes the child in her arms. A tightness forms in her throat.

The next to come is Arthur. He enters the room with heavy steps and when his eyes land on her and Rhaenys she stops breathing. His face loses all colour, and it seems that his mind is working through events. He turns to Rhaegar, surprised, forgetting even to bow. His brows are knitted together. Elia can guess what he’s thinking. Oh, it is so easy to jump to such conclusions. Rhaegar was courteous to her at Harrenhal, Rhaegar even danced wither. And Rhaegar was in Dorne. And he returned from Dorne with a bastard daughter to whom he’s given his name. Elia knows all to well what all this points to.

“Your Grace,” Arthur finally regains his senses enough to bow to the King and Queen. Elia can hear the tension in his voice. “You have called for me.” He doesn’t look at her anymore, his jaw clenching after he has finished speaking.

“Be at ease my friend,” Rhaegar speaks. “Lyanna and I shall leave for the terrace. Keep Lady Elia company for a few moment.” And he’s as good as his word, rising to his feet and offering his wife his arm.

Finally, Arthur’s attention returns to her and to Rhaenys. “So you are her mother?” There is disbelief in his voice, and hurt too. No doubt he feels betrayed.

“It is not what it looks like, Arthur.” Elia is soft-spoken as always. “This child is mine, yes, but she’s not Rhaegar’s.” She wants to tell him that even if the Dragon has placed the world at her feet she wouldn’t have shared herself with him. The one she loves is Arthur.

“Not Rhaegar’s,” the knight repeats, seemingly lost. Again he combs through event. Elia can almost hear the cogs turning. “How can it be?” He looks at Rhaenys, and it seems to be dawning upon him. “She’s mine?” Why he finds that so hard to believe, Elia doesn’t know. But it is the truth. She nods.

“Yours,” the woman confirms, then kisses her daughter’s forehead. Wide dark eyes stare at her. “She is yours and mine. I only found out I was pregnant after you had already left. And I feared entrusting such a message to anybody.”

“Yet you would entrust her,” he reproaches nodding at the child. “You gave her to Rhaegar. Why did he not tell me? Why did you hide this from me?”

“My father was furious when he found out. He threatened to kill my babe. I had to do something.” There are less stiff rules in Dorne regarding bastards, but that doesn’t mean they are always welcomed. “The King offered to claim my child until another solution could be found, and father accepted, not wanting anyone to know I was the mother.”

“The King asked me if I wanted to renounce my place in his guard. I didn’t understand then.” But now he does. Elia wonders if she is willing to make the sacrifice. “How could I have known?”

“Will you?” She would leave Dorne behind for him if he wished to remain here. Elia bites her lip, hugging Rhaenys who hasn’t spoken a single word. The poor child, she must be utterly confused.

“More than anything I want to be with you and our daughter.” He nods, having reached a decision. “Yes, I will. I never dreamed this was possible.” Neither had she, but Elia is grateful all the same. She allows Arthur to bring her and Rhaenys into his embrace and listens to the promises he whispers in her hair. Were she to die now, Elia would die a happy woman. Who would have thought the gods would smile upon her so.

“I do love you,” she tells Arthur. “And I love you also,” she says to Rhaenys. Her family is here with her. She can ask for no more. “Praised be the gods.”   


	45. xlv

The stench of his festering wound bothers Robert so much that even through the haze of pain he does not fail to mention it to the cold walls and dirty straw. Where his hand used to be there is only a stump, crudely wrapped in dirty strips of material. However, Robert is too addled to care. Instead he is angry to be locked in the cells under the Red Keep and screams and screams to be released. “Do you know who I am? I will have all of you hanged!” His threats serve to nothing.

“The one who dies will be you,” one of the guards spits back at him, driving the handle of his sword through the bars and catching Robert in the face. “Your days are numbered, Baratheon.” This only serves to infuriate him further, which in turn makes his jailers unsympathetic to his plight.    

Cersei comes to visit him, sunshine in her hair and disgust in the straight set of her lips. She steps gingerly over the dry, brittle straw and looks at him with something akin to pity. “You won’t be able to escape this one, my Lord,” she says gently, almost mockingly. Even in the dim light she shines like the lioness she is. “At the very least beg for mercy, if not for yourself, then for our child.” She hugs her bulging stomach. Cersei’s green eyes cut through him, vivid and alive, and full of power.

Robert struggles to his feet and steps closer to her. “You dare give me orders?” His voice is not only disbelieving, but appalled. How dare she? “Who do you think you are, woman?” It seems that his prolonged absence has turned Cersei to her previous self, full of air and unthinking of what leaves her mouth. “I would rather die than ask for anything from them.”

“You will die either way,” Cersei insists. “There is no need to drag our child and me with you.” And there they are, her true intentions. As always she is looking out for herself. Robert hadn’t been expecting anything else, after all Cersei is not the most loving of wives. She would sooner cut the ropes and let him fall than reach out to him and help him to safety. Robert supposes he is to blame for this too, because neither is he the best of husbands.

“Tell your brother to protect you and your bastard.” Truth be told, Robert has known for some time that Cersei carries another man’s child. He hasn’t made it known that he’s aware only because he thought he could confront his wife later. Now she stands before him and its time for yet another fight. “Or go beg the father to take you for his wife. Unless of course he is already married.”

Her beautiful face contorts in a mask of rage. “You have no right to accuse me of anything. This child is yours.” But she doesn’t dare press. Cersei shoots him a dirty look. “You’ve fathered more bastards than I have fingers and you dare to point at me, to blame me? Lyanna Stark knew what she was doing when she refused your suit, I should have followed her example.”

At the mention of Lyanna Robert explodes, plunging forward and sending Cersei crashing to the ground with a heavy hit to her face. He cares little for the potential danger he puts the unborn babe in and even less for Cersei cries of pain. She should not have challenged him, Robert thinks. “Perhaps the next time you’ll think before opening that wretched mouth of yours.” For all her fairness, Cersei is like a rotten apple, overly ripe and overly sweet and poisonous.  And somehow bringing her to her knees, this proud and haughty lioness, makes him feel slightly better.

Attracted by the commotion the guards run in, bearing their swords. They fend Robert off with a few well-placed jabs and help Cersei to her feet. The woman is clutching her middle and murmuring, and Robert falls back. They take her out, making disparaging comments as they go.

“It’s no wonder the king wants him dead,” one says, holding Cersei by her upper arm. “If he treats my Lady like this, all other women must mean nothing to him. He has no ounce of respect even for his own wife.” The other nods along, seemingly bothered by this behaviour. Robert does not care for their opinions, no more than he does for Cersei’s.    

Of course, there is no truth in that. Robert has respect for women. Rather it is men he does not respect as much. Alas, Cersei needs to be put in her place and learn that while she may have beauty on her side that does not give her the right to command other, to bend them to her will. The sooner she understands that, the better for her. And so, Robert feels no remorse for his actions.

In fact, his only regret is his inability to see Lyanna one last time. Oh, he knows well enough that he’ll die. Robert doesn’t expect it will end any differently. What man would allow his rival to live? And there is the risk of other talking about the attentions he had forced upon the Queen under Aerys’ rule. At the very least Robert wishes he could explain to her that he loves her. Because he does adore Rhaegar’s wife, and he has since before Harrenhal, with its Tourneys and crownings and lovers hidden in dark corners.  It is unfair that she has been stolen away from him.

So Robert can do little but lie in the hay and think about every action that has led to this. He does remember not liking Lyanna much as a child. She’s been a quiet sort of girl, easily overlooked, for he’d been much older than her. Then, naturally, not having many youngsters his age, Robert had focused his attention of her. And it was only after his ill-ending prank that he started admiring her. Many years had passed until he saw her again, and then Harrenhal came to be. The girl Robert knew was replaced with a woman almost grown; and how sweet she was and still is. If only she were his. But no, Lyanna chose to be stubborn and cling to her crown when he could have given her so much more.

“I love you, you foolish woman,” he says to no one in particular, or rather to the Lyanna in his mind, who is smiling at him. “Why is it that you cannot see that?” Perhaps because she has no desire to, not does she wish to understand. Yet Robert has never been one to give up easily. And this is the price he pays for his continual devotion to a woman who neither likes him, nor wants anything to do with him.  


	46. xlvi

“She was his obsession,” Stannis comments coldly. “Not even Cersei Lannister could sway his infatuation with your sister.” Eddard Stark regards him just as coldly, waiting for him to continue. This is not a story Stannis feels comfortable repeating. “What my brother did to your sister is unforgivable, I know that. And I know that he must pay, but it makes him no less my brother.”

“The King won’t ever consent to letting him keep his life,” Eddard replies. Stannis can see those weary eyes dim. “Tell me what happened.” He will not let it go, not before all the scars have been picked at and the wounds are reopened.

“I know,” the other sighs heavily. “Robert had our men gathered on the grounds that the Prince had rebelled against his father and sought to dethrone old, mad Aerys. They thought they were doing their duty, the bulk of them. Very few knew of Robert’s true plans. I had myself had no idea until it was too late.”

The Quiet wolf nods to show his understanding. “Ser Dayne told me you tried to stop the barbaric treatment. But you saw what was done to her and that is what I want to hear.”

“It is not something I wish to remember. Robert’s fascination with your sister pushed him to a madness of his own. He thought that if he claimed her body, he would have her spirit as well.” Stannis takes a moment to drive the memories away. They still make his stomach turn. “It was the blood after that made him freeze, I think. He hadn’t expected her to be with child. None of us had. She had fought like a wild thing, you know. But she could do little against so many.”

“They didn’t…” Eddard Stark chokes on the rest of his question. The horrifying thought that Lyanna had been so ill-used and made to suffer once is enough. He cannot fathom her enduring more abuse.

“Robert wouldn’t allow it. Nor would Mad Aerys. He said that the loss of her child and the beating he gave her were quite enough.” It is twisted, but Stannis thinks of it as a small mercy. “If they had, I am quite certain King’s Landing would have been flattened by now.”

They don’t look alike in the way Jaime Lannister and his sister do. Lyanna Stark does have something of that long, oval face, but she’s dainty. Yet inside she hides more strength that Stannis would have given her credit for. It is little wonder that his brother had been taken with the she-wolf. Stannis supposed he can’t call it love though, Robert has at any given moment both hated and felt passion for the woman that would never be his. If only he’d concentrated on Cersei.

“Robert Baratheon will lose his head. His wife will be given back to her family and the child she births shall take the Lannister name. In Robert’s place you shall have Storm’s End and all the income which it brings. But you have to wed a woman of a House loyal to the throne. Renly shall remain in your care.”

“And which would that be?” Stannis knows that he’s never been in danger of dying, not by Rhaegar Targaryen’s hand. But still he counts himself lucky. “Or am I to have my pick?” Who would marry the brother of a traitor even when said brother had little to do with the treason?

“Selyse Florent,” Eddard murmurs softly. House Florent is not the most fortunate in looks and certainly not one of the wealthiest. They are loyal though, and apparently willing to sacrifice one of their own. “I believe the two of you have met before.”

This whole situation is not ideal. Stannis bows his head in resignation. Selyse Florent is not half as bad as some of the other ladies that may have been forced upon him. At the very least she is respectable. “If the lady is not opposed.” Without doubt the lady has little to say on the matter; most ladies don’t and even if they do it’s likely to be weak arguments that they give. Stannis finds that he almost pities Selyse Florent in this moment. With her homely features and stick-thin figure, she can find no man to free her of this burden.

His brother will die. His brother deserves to die. Stannis sees the justice of it. But he can also see the bloodlust come alive in King Rhaegar’s eyes whenever someone speaks of the impending trial and execution. Rickard Stark is no different. Even the gentler Eddard looks like the wolf he is when those cold eyes mist over with the desire to kill. All these men and their love for a woman. Stannis understand it and then he doesn’t. His own love is a cool thing, more calculated, more balanced. And yet it hurts to know that what little is left of his family will become even less. It is not that he blames Rhaegar’s Queen. The former Princess has been kind to him, and he doesn’t doubt that this lenience he is being shown is in part her doing.

Death looms over him, not his but his brother’s. “May I see him?” At the very least he wants to look in Robert’s eyes and ask him why. Stannis knows, has always known, that Lyanna Stark Targaryen had never felt much of anything for his brother. So why would Robert stubbornly hang onto the woman’s every? He needs to understand, to give it all some meaning.      

They don’t deny him this. And when he finally sees Robert Stannis half wishes they had. “Was it worth it, brother?” he asks the creature that is sprawled on the ground, laughing madly at the air. This is not Robert. Not really. The being looks like him, but it seems to Stannis that his brother has died long ago, perhaps along with their parents. “Will you not answer me?”

Laughter is the only thing he hears. Stannis doesn’t try anymore. Clearly nothing can be done. Robert won’t be giving him any insight into his actions. This will be buried along with his rotting severed head. It is rather sad. Men that over-reach have been known to find themselves at death’s door that much quicker. And Robert’s obsession with the she-wolf is over-reaching of a sort. The plain truth is that Stannis only cares this much for Robert’s fate now. “You’ve changed. Brother. And not for the better.”

So he leaves the place. Selyse Florent and a new life. It’s not what he thought he would have, not what he planned for, but Stannis understands, unlike Robert, that sometimes life gives only this and he lets it be. Selyse Florent and a new life; it really doesn’t sound so bad. Not bad at all.   


	47. xlvii

Viserys is, not for the first time, having what all the adults in his life refer to as a tantrum. He struggles against the maids that have been sent to make him presentable and cries and yells. He doesn’t want these strange women with their pungent scents and soft skin needling him. They aren’t his mother and just seeing the pity in their eyes brings him in a condition where he’s only fit to be tied to the bed. But again, how dare they act as if they know anything about him or his sister? Not even their older brother knows what they have been through.

Of course, the young Prince doesn’t blame his sibling. Rhaegar couldn’t have known. Logically, Viserys is well-aware of that. His heart, however, not so much. And it is at this point that his mind spins him around in circles. To every reason he finds there is an excuse, something more that could have been done and then there are the impediments. It only serves to enrage him this blind kindness people give him, the false assurance.

The burden on his shoulders is a heavy one; it shouldn’t have been left to a child. No matter the horrors he’s seen, Viserys is still a child; that much cannot be doubted. One can tell by the way he acts, one moment needing a hand to hold his, and then pushing it away with confidence, only to glance behind after. Rhaella had always stood there, with a warm smile and kind words. Now she’s gone, and her absence has morphed in a bottomless pit on whose edge Viserys stands, ready to be blown away by the faintest gust of wind.   

“Do stop, child,” chides one of the women gently. “You mustn’t fret or we’ll never be able to finish this.” She combs his hair, that curling mop atop his head with care, but its nothing like the loving feeling he used to get when his mother did it. Nothing can compare with the ghost that still clings to the shadows and smoothes over his sweat-washed forehead when the night terrors pay him visits. “There, my little Prince. You’re even better looking than our King now.”

“It is enough, Daela,” the voice of his good-sister sounds from behind both himself and the servant. “I would like to have a word with my nephew.” She dismisses the woman as Viserys meets her eyes in the looking glass. Her dark brows affect a soft look. To him she seems almost maternal standing there, small but straight. She’s not all that old, younger by a good many years than his brother. She’s an odd combination of woman-child, half-vulnerable, half-assured. He can relate to her and then he can’t. Viserys freezes in his seat as she takes up the comb. “How are you this morning, Viserys, my dear?” She touches him with the accustomed gentleness of a mother. He has to remind himself that while she’s a wolf by blood, she birthed three dragons. Mother of dragons, just like his own had been before her.

He takes in a wheezy breath of air. Viserys seeks those gray eyes in the reflection standing before him. Tortured orbs beg for something. He doesn’t know what it is that he would have her do. The boy wants to cry, he wants to scream and send her away, to tell her she should take no interest in him, that it is because of her that father’s anger grew and he did what he did. Instead he scowls, because for the life of him he can’t shed tears before her. “I am well.”

Lyanna bites her lip and one hand falls to his shoulder. Viserys flinches. The last time anyone touched him it was to discipline him. Father has never taken too kindly to his outbursts or his attempts to protect his mother when he thought her offended or injured. In fact, just the evening before both of them died Viserys incurred his wrath. He had raised the dragon and to his horror nothing could stop the rampaging beast. There are still marks on his body. But the pain is not in his side or any other point that can be touched. No, it is his soul and his mind that bleed.

As if recognizing his suffering the she-wolf wrapped his in her arms. The scent of winter, still strong on her, assaults his nose. Viserys struggles at first, uncomfortable, not knowing what to make of her display. “Have you gone mad? Release me this instant!” His orders have no effect on her. Lyanna merely whispers soothing in his ear. Her cooing wakes in him that child he tries to keep locked away in the dark. Big, fat tears start rolling down his cheeks, sobs jumping from within his mouth. “Let me go.”

“You poor darling,” she says. “It is not at all fine, I know. You feel like your world is falling apart and there’s nothing you can do to stop it. I know.” Her words arrest him. “There’s a whole where your heart should be, a gaping wound. It’s difficult to breath sometimes.” But she describes it so well. Viserys wants to deny it. He can’t. “Yes, child, I know how you feel, and I want to tell you that this darkness, this pain, it won’t endure. You have to believe.” Her warm motherly hold envelops the child wholeheartedly. “The sun shall rise again.”

“Not for mother.” It feels odd to finally acknowledge her death. It is not that before he did not know, but Viserys hasn’t allowed the words to leave his lips. Words have power, he’s learned; power beyond his father’s fists or his mother’s soft sobs. “She’s gone.” All that’s left of her is a ruined portrait somewhere in the gallery and the memories. “She’ll never see the sun rising.”

“But you live,” Lyanna reminds him gently, kindly and for the first time in a long time it doesn’t anger him to have somebody care. “You may wonder why the gods have made it so and you may rage against their decision, against them taking her, however, that changes nothing.” The truth opens the wounds again and another wave hits him; the grief wells inside his chest and burst with a loud sound. “There, love, there.” Lyanna turns his around and allows his tears to fall onto her shoulder and be absorbed by the fine silk and the lace of her dress. She’s no mother to him, but she’s close enough to it in that moment.

How much time they spend like that, Viserys couldn’t tell if asked. All that he knows is the relative safety she’d cocooned him in and the taste of true, happy childhood on his tongue mingling with the salty taste of tears and the bitterness of loss.  And Viserys keep weeping.


	48. xlviii

Cersei rests atop her bed, drawing short breaths. The pain is blinding, like nothing she’s ever felt before. But the lioness grits her teeth in spite of it and pushes with all her might. She pushes for with every last drop of her strength wanting more than anything for the child to be born.  The Maester at her bedside wipes away the beads of sweat decorating her forehead.

If anything has changed then it is the way she is treated. Where once people were falling over themselves to do her bidding they shark away from her now. As if she carries some sort of illness that could harm them. It is all Robert’s fault. Cersei pleads with the Seven to give her a son with hair of gold and eyes of grass-green. Should the child look like Robert the woman doesn’t think she could stand it. She’s seen enough of her husband to never want his face to greet her eyes again. She sees enough of him in the bastard hr had fathered with one of the kitchen helps. It is an affront that he should allow the woman to remain in his service, yet he’d done that and Cersei could send her nowhere, not until Robert’s imprisonment. Now she is gone, her brat along with her.

“You are doing fine, my Lady,” the Maester speaks, moving away to the end of the bed. “The babe is sure to come.”

“How much longer?” Cersei snaps. She is tired and covered in sweat and in great pain. “He’s kept me bedridden for a full moon.” And indeed, Cersei has not left her rooms in thais long. She would not choose to do so even if she could. Robert is to lose his head one of these days and while she does not feel anything for the man, he is her husband. How can she show her face when he’s done his utmost to compromise his House?

“Just be prepared to push, my lady. Now.” And with that the pain grips her once again, and Cersei is back to her fight, the fight of all women.

It is not  a boy they place in her arms after endless hours of labour. Instead of a golden haired lion, she is presented with a pale skinned, dark haired child. A girl with unfocused blue eyes. She may have the colouring of her father, but Cersei can see that the face peering up is hers. Eye shape, lips, the sweet mien. “It was a boy I wanted? Could you not be a boy?” Females are of little use, especially when there is no male heir. Damn it, now there is no chance of Storm’s End becoming hers. The Seven are cruel, as they usually are. “Take her,” the new mother commands, passing the babe to a maid waiting on her. “I am tired.”

Despite her claim, Cersei does not sleep, not even when she is left by herself. There is not a soul in the room and no sound can be heard but the woman’s breathing. Cersei believes herself unfairly treated. She did not ask much of life, not really. She wants her brother and the freedom to do as she wills. That is all. Alas, her father wed her to Robert Baratheon who has kept her a semi-prisoner in what was to be her home. And Jaime, well, her sweet brother had grown apart from her. She barely understands him anymore. Just as he no longer understands her.

And now she has a daughter. A bloody female child who is not worth all those hours of pain and sweat. What is she to do with a daughter? Who will marry her despite her circumstances? What knight would sully himself?  

Quite startlingly it comes to her mind that she has not named the child. Cersei rolls out of the bed and with careful, measured steps she walks to the door. Now she may come and go as she wishes, no longer restricted by dear of Robert. She enters the nursery where a wet nurse feeds the babe. Cersei dismisses her swiftly. The girl is placed in a small crib and the mother bends over it. She studies the face again. There is a little of Robert there too to her exasperation. Around the mouth. “Not even you are wholly mine.”

Blue eyes look at her. There is something like trust in them and something like adoration. “What will I do with you? How will we live?” She is no longer a lady of the high class, she is the wife of a rebel. She is not held accountable for the actions of her husband, yet she is not innocent either. It makes no sense. How could she have stopped him? At least she may count on Queen Lyanna being a mother. And from one mother to another, Cersei does think she may sway the situation in her favour.

Her fool of a husband, it is all his fault. Why could he not love her? Cersei thinks back to the day she wed him. Silly girl that she’d been, she thought he would fall at the mere sight of her. Lord Baratheon had done no such thing. Why, Cersei thinks she did not even manage to get a true smile from the man. And then when the bedding came, he cried out the name of another. Cersei will never forget the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.  She will never forget the pain in her heart. She could have loved him. She could have made him happy. Instead he had to go and start a war. Over who? A woman in love with her own husband, with little children of her own?

“Men are stupid creatures, my darling,” she says to her daughter, lowering herself down by the crib. She rocks it gently. “Do not trust men. They are snakes. The best you can do is be one step ahead of them.” Cersei thinks that if she tries hard enough she may make a brighter future for her daughter. “I wish you all the happiness I did not have.” The wood creaks and Cersei cannot hold the eyes of her daughter any longer. She looks away and sighs softly.

An old lullaby that she remembers her own mother singing comes unbidden to her mind. Cersei begins singing without words. She hums quietly and wonders if her daughter can feel her sadness. She hopes not. The child is too young to be so burdened. “My mother told me that one day I would marry a prince. She told me I would be happy and protected and loved. She was wrong. But you, my daughter, you shall not be a princess, or protected, or loved, except by me. I pray it is enough.”

At least until she can manage something better.


	49. xlix

Blood upon the stones, a head rolls to the ground. Rhaegar feels satisfies despite himself. At his side Lyanna gasps and he can see from the corner of his eye that her fingers have curled themselves into the heavy skirts of her dress. If it is relief or horror, the King does not quite know. “Stay your sighs, my Queen,” he whispers gently. Better that she should not shed tears. “I shall see that you remain undisturbed after.” He chooses his words carefully for Lyanna may be a wolf, but antlers have been known to slash through fur and flesh before.

Robert Baratheon still looks upon them with wide, glassy eyes. Rhaegar supposes he should feel pity stirring inside of him, but all he can muster is a vague sense of disappointment. His Lyanna has suffered at the hands of this man, the nightmares still haunt her, and Robert dies a quick death, while even from beyond he dares to glimpse at his wife. It should scare him that he wanted to torture the man, to give him a slow, painful death, something to send him on his way screaming. Alas he will have to make do with putting his head on a pike.

Some would say it is punishment enough that Robert lost title, lands and his wits. Rhaegar has heard the whispers and he heartily disagrees. As promised, he shows no mercy to the fiend. Cruel he may be in this, yet he is also fair. He could have punished the whole of House Baratheon, yet he chose to forgive those not directly involved. He even allows a part of Robert to live on.  

Lyanna looks a shade to pale, he notices. Mayhap he should take her away now. “Come, my Queen.” Along with him the court turns from the corpse and leaves it to the masses that have gathered. They shall savage whatever remains of Robert’s body, while the head will go up the city walls.

“It was horrible,” Lyanna whimpers, leaning into him as if she has no more power in her bones. “It was horrible.” Death has never suited her. It is not that she has not seen such acts of violence before, but she never grown that used to them that they no longer bother her.

“It is for the best,” Rhaegar shushes her. “There was nothing left here for him.” The she-wolf nods solemnly.  The King helps her onto her horse, then climbs atop of his. What more can he say to her now?

Matters of state start to cloud his thoughts. Robert’s threat may have been pushed away, but there are other now. This is a very intelligently crafted game. Who is player and who is pawn? Who is friend and who is enemy? Who can be trusted? Rhaegar is not so foolish, nor so idealistic as to think that those who have betrayed his father will not betray him given the chance. His wish, however, is to find a balance, something to stroke all egos and keep the peace. His greatest worry is not what remains of the Baratheon army, nor Dorne’s displeasure at their Princess taking to husband a man who no longer holds any lands. Nay, it is the Lannisters he has to watch out for. Tywin Lannister in particular. The man is cunning, intelligent and power-hungry. By all means a dangerous combination. It matters little that Jaime is on his side. Rhaegar knows the boy’s heart is in the right place, but he is not the Lord of the Manor; his father makes decisions, and Tywin is on no one’s side but his own.

“You are quiet, my King,” Lyanna’s voice breaks his thoughts. He looks to her and gives a small smile, a gentle tug of his lips. “What are you thinking on with such concentration?”

His wife knows his thought for Rhaegar has never shied away from sharing them with her. But he would not burden her with this, not when she has her own recovery to make. “Naught of import; you needn’t worry over it.” He will tell her later. He will tell her when her eyes no longer shed tears. “I do want your opinion on a matter. Do you think your brother would be amendable to taking position of King’s Hand?”

Surprise registers of her face. “Ned, you mean? I thought you would give the position to Jon Connington.” But she considers the matter carefully before speaking again. “My brother has no head for intrigues. He thinks that because he would never dream of speaking lies neither would other. He is honest and fair, my King. He shall serve you better as Warden of the North when my father is no longer. It would destroy him to be given such a position.”

Rhaegar nods his understanding. “I thought as much.” He does not seem offended by the implications behind her words. “Tywin Lannister is too dangerous to be left with such power in his hands, my Queen. I need a man I can trust.” Rhaegar pauses briefly. “Jon Connington is my friend. Should I make him Hand, he will without doubt serve well, yet if danger should fall upon us, he will think to save me first and the realm second. I need a Hand to whom the realm comes first.”

“An impossible goal you’ve set for yourself. There are no men like that,” Lyanna answers moments later with such conviction that Rhaegar cannot help but smile. “Every man has something they cherish more than they do the realm. For Lord Lannister it is power. For my father and Ned, rectitude. What shall you do?”

Instead of giving her any reply, Rhaegar takes her hand and kisses it. That is to say they shall perhaps speak of this later. For now it is enough to have heard that generally speaking they are of the same mind. Of course, Rhaegar shall keep his eyes open for anyone who might fit his criterion. But when even he himself does not put the realm first, how can he expect it of others. For in truth it is knows that for Rhaegar it is Lyanna and her children to take first place in his mind. The King would not deny it if asked. And yet the realm is important too.

Thought veering towards the pleasant subject if children, Rhaegar cannot help but wonder if his wife will even bless him with another. It is not that Lyanna is reticent to his touch, and even if she were it would not be unexpected. But Rhaegar is still shy of coming to her bed in light of her trials, and Lyanna looks stricken at the though of carrying a child. What if she lost that one too, she asks him. So Rhaegar let her be for now, reminding himself that such wounds are hard to heal.    


	50. l

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now, for an ending of sorts...

Rickard’s eyes are a mixture of warmth and worry as he watches his daughter with her husband and King. His little she-wolf is a mother many times over, a woman as fine as can be. And yet he finds himself worrying over her. She has acquired grace and wisdom, passed tests unnumbered and perils of many kinds. But as any parent, Rickard looks at her and sees that little girl holding tightly to her brother’s arm. Only now she holds onto her husband’s arm and the man seems content to help hold her upright. Rickard is not fooled by her smiles, although they are lovely.

Lyanna Stark Targaryen is her father’s daughter. She is the King’s wife, Queen of the realm and mother of Princes, dragonlings. And her smile falters at times, her eyes glazing over. Rickard notices that his good-son strokes her hand comfortingly. There is a kind of understanding between husband and wife. Much like he and his Lady. There is strength in such bonds, beyond words. It might have been Aerys’ madness that brought them together, but Rickard cannot help but admire Rhaegar Targaryen’s actions when it comes to his wife. Other men might have not acted thus. But Rhaegar quite clearly loves Lyanna.

In time her wounds will heal, Rickard assures himself when he sees Lyanna laughing at something Rhaegar is saying. He prays for it to the old gods and the new. His daughter should not pay for something not her fault. In the next moment Rhaegar bring Lyanna’s hand up and presses his lips to it. Rickard looks away. That is something between them and he will not bear witness to such intimacy, for the look in the King’s eyes leaves little to doubt. “Ah, what it is to be young and in love.”

“Lord Stark!” Mace Tyrell’s voice breaks through the relative silence, making Rickard sigh. Lord Tyrell is not a bad man, merely a cumbersome fellow. “I’ve heard you turned down the position the King offered you on his Council.”

“Aye,” Rickard says calmly. “My place is in Winterfell. There are many other skilled men that His Grace might make use of. An old dog is not up to learning new tricks.”

“Would the Queen not feel safer, having her honourable father here?” Mace asks, seemingly genuine, although his eyes glint with something that puts Rickard on edge. “Ah, well. Let’s leave that. There is something else I would like to speak to you of.”

“Do speak, then.” Lord Stark makes for the gardens, Tyrell fast on his trail. He can already tell this will leave him with headache. But what can he do? Lord Tyrell had been of great help and no matter his opinion of the man, he owes Mace the life of his daughter and grandchildren.

“You’ve met my Willas, have you not?” Lord Tyrell has never been one for subtleties. Rickard nods, feeling apprehensive. “A good lad, that one. Anyway, your son, the heir of Winterfell must need a squire. My Willas is hard-working and skilled. Would you take him on?”

The Wolf relaxes at this. “Aye, I’ve seen the boy. Give him a year of two and he’ll be a knight. But why would you have him fostered in the North? Why not somewhere closer to home?” “I wish for him to learn from the best,” Mace replies honestly enough.

“I have long admired you, Lord Stark. You are a man after my own taste, and it would make me should my son heed your example.” Spoken like a true father, Rickard thinks. The flattery is there, of course, but Mace Tyrell is genuine in this. Whatever other reasons he has, Rickard does not see the need to worry.

"I would not dream of denying you, Lord Tyrell.” A small price, Rickard considers it to be. Even if Mace asked him to wed Robb to his daughter, both yet small, Rickard would not hesitate to give his word. “Brandon, Eddard, Benjen and I shall not he here much longer. Perhaps young Willas would like to come with us.”

Mace Tyrell nods his head emphatically. He looks almost like he has won something important. Rickard dismisses the thought. A son squiring in Winterfell, that is not so much. That done he bids the Lord of Highgarden a good day and then goes on his way. There is much to be done and little time. No doubt Eddard would like nothing more than to haste back to Winterfell is the arms of his Tully wife. If there is anyone more obvious than the King and his Queen than it is Eddard with Catelyn. His second-born is clearly enthralled with his fiery wife. And Rickard must confess that Catelyn Tully was a surprise even for him. She adapts quite well that one.

Bradon has not been so lucky in affections. Barbrey does not yield him any children, nor does she seem to care much for him by the state his son is in. Alas the boy has made his choices and a parents can only do so much. Bradon has ever been of a mind that his judgement is impeccable and now that he has been brought down perhaps he will heed the words of his father and betters. It is by no means certain, yet Rickard does hope that his eldest will learn from his past mistakes, for his own good.

And Benjen is the only one of his sons left not to have formed some sort of bond with a young lady. Soon it will come his time to marry. Rickard supposes he ought to think on the matter, but he rather hopes Benjen will find his own way. How startling it is for a parent to finally acknowledge his children are all grown and have little need the guidance that might be offered to them any longer. Four children out of which only one more depends on his parents. Such is the way of the world they live in.

Back in his appointed chambers, Rickard pick up a quill and starts penning out letters to some of his bannermen. Now is the time for knots to be tied and bonds to be made. Their new world might crumble if not properly taken care of, and he will not be witness to that. Peace has finally been made with Robert’s death, but some wound run deeper than that. There is Tywin Lannister to be dealt with, and Mace Tyrell should the man become overzealous. If only there were someone to be trusted with such things. Mayhap the King will name his Hand soon. It is a hard choice, but Rickard has little doubt that the King will make the appropriate appointments.

A wine cup sits on his desk. Rickard pick it up, “To the King and Queen, to the realm,” he whispers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't panic! This is the end you are reading now. However there is another part coming up. I hope that's good news for you all. :)


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